The Edge of Honor (62 page)

Brian looked at him, his heart sinking. “Of course, Chief. But I hope to hell you’re wrong about this.”

“So do I, sir, so do I. But you know, we’ve just come outta Subic and all the dopers got their stashes right—you know what I’m saying?”

“All too well. I’ll get the Sheriff.” Brian walked back over into D and D and made a discreet phone call while looking over Garuda’s shoulder.

The air unknown was still showing on the screen, loitering along the coastal mountains. Jackson said he’d get right on it. Brian hung up.

“What’s his range now?”

“Forty-six and a half. And he’s not comin’ our way.

Just the usual shit, now that Long Beach’s gone.”

“But they waited six days this time, didn’t they?”

“You betchum, Red Ryder. That musta been a nasty surprise up there over Hanoi.”

“How’s your track, Chief?”

FCSC waggled his hand. “Just so-so. He’s in the weeds.”

The bat phone buzzed. It was the exec again. Brian could hear movie dialogue in the background.

“What’s happening with the bandit?”

“He’s loitering out at forty-six miles. Making lazy eights along the coast and staying feet-dry. Uh, XO?”

“Yes?” The exec’s tone sharpened.

“I may have another deal going on down in missile plot. Like the last time? I’ve got the Sheriff enroute.

May be nothing; may be something. You, uh, want to call me back in about, say, fifteen mikes, XO?”

There was a moment’s pause. “Yes. That’s fine, Weps.

Keep us advised, especially if he changes his profile.”

Brian hung up. Still keeping secrets. He hoped fervently that FCSC was wrong.

“Evaluator, SWIC. Bogey is slowing, appears to be returning to its base.

And AIC reports we have BARCAP inbound to station, ETA fifteen mikes.”

“Right, Garuda. Let me know when you lose video on him, and tell the Cave to watch for surprises on the coast.

We don’t need to get jumped again.”

“I roger that. But I think with the BARCAP inbound, we’re probably not going to see any more bogeys for awhile.”

Radarman First Class Rockheart stuck his head into D and D. “Mr. Holcomb, you’ve got a phone call on the admin line in surface.”

“Okay, Rocky.” Brian walked over to surface, wondering why someone would call the evaluator in surface and not D and D. And then he knew.

“Weps here.”

“Mr. Holcomb.” It was Chief Jackson. “We’ve got a mess down here in missile plot. I’ve got three EFives from Fox division partying down on weed. Got ‘em cold.

They’re so high, they don’t even deny it. Offered me a toke, if you can believe it.”

“Fuck me,” Brian said. “Are you alone, or do you have a witness?”

“I’ve got Mr. Hudson with me, sir. I picked him up on the way aft.”

“Good move. Lemme talk to him, Chief.” There was a moment of silence and then Fox came on the line.

“Mr. Hudson speaking, sir.”

“Fox, how bad is this?”

“This is a goddamn disaster, Boss. With Marcowitz gone, we bust these guys and we have no more EFives in missile-fire control. The next senior guy is a fresh caught E-Four with one year of experience.”

“Any doubts about what you got?”

“Not one, Mr. Holcomb. These suckers are flyin’ and proud of it. The watch stander is FROM Three Warren; he’s the same guy who was in here with Marcowitz, the black guy, and it’s almost the same deal, except these guys went in the back, in the switchboard room, to have their crotch-hair ciggie weeds. The hatch was closed and Warren got antsy when these three wipes got loud. The chief up in Combat picked up on it, and here we are.”

“Write the little fucks up,” Brian said. He thought that Rockheart appeared to be eavesdropping. “Get ‘em piss tested and then get report chits. I’ll sign ‘em as accuser.”

“Sir, we do that and—”

“You got a hearing problem, Fox? Do it.”

“Aye, aye, sir, but—”

“Just do it, Fox,” Brian said, a little more gently this time. “I know what you’re trying to tell me.” Brian hung up and walked back into D and D. Garuda brought him up to speed.

“Bogey is RTB. BARCAP’s almost onstation. No more activity on the coast for the moment, but we’re watching. I secured System Two when he went on the deck. He wasn’t tracking too well, anyway. Is there something—”

“Yeah, there is.” Brian picked up the bat phone.

“XO.” So the exec was guarding the phone. Good.

“XO, the bogey has returned to base. I’ll be doing an intel report to confirm Vinh military airfield is operational again. Oh, and the BARCAP are back onstation.”

“Okay. Any other-activity?”

“Not outside, sir.”

A pause. “Yes?”

“Inside, the Sheriff and Fox Hudson caught three FTMs smoking pot in missile plot’s switchboard room.

I’ve directed the Sheriff to piss-test them and Mr. Hudson to write them up.”

There was silence on the line. Brian had the feeling that the exec wanted to tell him to wait, to stop the report-chit process until he could get into it, but with the captain right there …”Okay. Keep us advised if any more come up.” The phone clunked in his ear. The XO was probably going to sit there for a few minutes and then ease out of the wardroom and head for the Sheriff’s office. Brian decided he wanted to get there first. He made one more call.

“Chief master-at-arms office, Baby Doc here, sir.”

“Baby Doc, the Sheriff back with those three guys?

This is Mr. Holcomb.”

“Yes, sir, here he is.”

“Jackson speaking, sir.”

“Sheriff, Mr. Hudson has some doubts about the wisdom of putting these three guys formally on report. I’d appreciate it if you’d get the paper moving ASAP, before there’s, uh, any interference, if you know what I mean.

And I’m going to sign them, so get someone to bring the roughs up here to Combat.”

“Uh, yes, sir. But there shouldn’t be any—”

“Yeah, I know. Just remember that I called you.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The remainder of the 1800 to 2400 watch passed uneventfully.

Chief Jackson had brought the three rough-draft report chits to Brian thirty minutes after his call and Brian had initialed them. He tried to keep his mind on the Red Crown business, but the incident in missile plot sat on his shoulder like one of Goya’s nightmares. But when the exec came into Combat at 2330 with Count Austin and Fox Hudson, he knew that he had trouble on his hands.

Brian turned over the watch to Austin and Garuda gave SWIC to Hudson.

The exec busied himself with his own message stack at the evaluator’s table, obviously waiting for the watch change. When Brian announced that Austin had the watch, the exec got up and signaled for Brian to follow him. The exec headed for the ladder, preceded Brian down to the next level, and walked directly into Brian’s stateroom. Brian took a deep breath and followed him in. The exec flopped his big frame down in a chair and indicated that Brian should do the same.

“Well,” he began, “this is a fine mess you’ve got in Fox division.”

“Yes, sir,” Brian agreed. “That’s four E-Fives in less than a month.”

“The Sheriff showed me the report chits. That’s what I want to talk about.”

“Yes, sir, I figured you might.”

“I’ll get right to it: We have our system for handling this here, Brian.”

“Yes, sir, and it’s not working. I think these guys ought to go on report and be processed for drug offenses. Go to mast, get their general or whatever discharges, and take their doper asses back to the streets.”

“Have you thought through the consequences of doing that?” Brian sighed.

“Yes, sir. It means I have two FROM chiefs, one first class, and the next rated guy on the ladder is FROM Three Warren, fresh-caught and pretty green. We kick those three guys off the ship and we have a ferocious hole in missile-fire control.”

“And you still want to do this?”

Brian rubbed his eyes as he gathered his thoughts. The only sound in the stateroom was the rush of air from the vents. Did he really want to do this? Besides gutting Fox division, it might also mean the end to any chances he had for a brilliant regular fitness report in this ship, because pressing on with the report chit would mean that the captain would have to confront the drug offenses at mast. That’s what the exec was really asking him: Do you really want to do this?

“XO, I understand what you’re saying. And I’m not oblivious to the system you’ve been running here on the drugs. But I just feel in my bones that Hood’s not doing it right. The Navy’s policy and regs on drug use aboard ship are crystal-clear: You kick ‘em out for it.”

The exec shook his head. “Navy policy, shit. You’ve got a lot to learn, Brian. The Navy policy is two-faced: You kick ‘em out, but then the ship gets a bad reputation for having a drug problem, and you decimate your crew, which means your department doesn’t perform well. And guess, Mr. Department Head, who suffers for that?”

“I know that, XO. I know. But every time we point one of those missile directors, or launch a helo, or an AIC sits down to direct a fighter, these guys have to be clean. They can’t be on the back side of a buzz, or hungover, or fixating on their next dose of whatever shit they’re into. For me, that’s what’s at the heart of this.”

The exec shifted in his chair and shuffled his stack of messages, his face grim. Brian had the sense that, while the exec did not disagree with him, he was struggling with other loyalties. Finally, he looked up.

“You realize, of course, that the skipper has very little idea of how bad this drug problem is, don’t you? You’ve figured out that our ‘system,’ as you call it, is something I’m running, not him? You press on with those chits and I have to take ‘em up the line, to captain’s mast. And that’s something I really don’t want to do.” Brian leaned forward. “But XO,” he said, “if the ship had cracks in the hull and you had guys down below patching and plugging every day to keep up with them, you’d be obligated to tell him, whether he wanted to hear it or not, wouldn’t you? I mean, he’s the captain. He’s the owner. He’s supposed to know. He’s required to know, by Navy regs and two hundred years of Navy tradition. And since he can’t be everywhere at once, he depends on the wardroom to tell him, even when it’s bad news. I can understand a guy his age, with his temperament and his ‘take care of your troops’ approach, I can understand why—”

The exec put up a hand. “No, you can’t. There’s more to it. And unfortunately, I can’t tell you any more than that. But keep in mind that he did send in a special fitness report on you. He didn’t have to do that. We didn’t have to do that. Not that you haven’t earned it—you’ve done a damn good job. But we did you a big favor. I kind of thought you’d be disposed to do us one. So right now, I guess I’m calling that in. Pull those report chits. For the sake of the ship, and for the sake of Captain Hunting ton.” He paused. “And, if I have to spell it out for you, for the sake of your own career.”

He reached into his message stack, pulled out the three report chits, and put them on Brian’s desk. “Think about it. I can just about guarantee that these three guys will never touch dope again. But even if I couldn’t, I still want you to think about it. Come see me after quarters in the morning. Okay?”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Brian said stiffly.

The exec pushed himself out of the chair with a groan.

“Getting old myself,” he muttered. “Like you will someday.”

Brian sat in his chair after the exec left. He listened to the tramp of feet in the passageway outside his door as the men coming off watch headed down below for midrats and their racks. Then it was silent, with only the background noises of the vent fans. Think about it. He read the chits; it was all there in black and white. Violation of Article 92, Uniform Code of Military Justice, Title Ten, United State Code. Drugged on duty. Urinalysis positive for all three. Apprehended and witnessed by a chief and a lieutenant.

He scanned the forms for the background information. m Boyle, Lanier, and Corey: all E-Fives, all with nearly four years of service, all missile school and basic-electronics school graduates, smart guys. He turned the | forms over and saw the priors. He sat up. Corey and I Lanier had been busted before for possession, at missile J school. Boyle had been busted for failing a random urinalysis screen at a transient barracks on the way to Hood. Shit. These guys were habitual dopers. He put the forms down on the desk. The only way the exec could guarantee that these guys would smoke no more dope was to rip their lips off and pass them around at quarters.

And while he thought that some of the chiefs would happily perform the surgery, he did not really believe in his heart that this would end their drug problem.

You will never know, know for sure, when you call for a missile on the rail or you assign a director in a no-shit situation if these three guys will be clean. That’s why the regs say to throw ‘em out. That old saw again: Navy regs are written in blood; every regulation in the book is — derived from some memorable incident whose procedural SS or operational lesson was first engraved on the hull of a drowned ship or etched in the memory of those who mourned dead sailors. So what it comes down to, bucko, is, what is the honorable thing to do here? You did understand that the special fitness report came with a string. I never explicitly agreed. You never went back and put any boundaries on the deal, either. You pocketed that fitrep. Now they’re calling in the favor. Okay, but if I go along, the drug decay festers and we’re back on the line with certified dopers on the missile consoles.

There was a soft knocking on his door.

“Yeah, come in.”

It was Chief Jackson, who stood in the doorway with his red flashlight.

“They told me you left with the XO. I figured it had to do with those chits. I guess I got curious.”

“Come in, Sheriff,” Brian said, tossing the chits on his desk. “Grab a chair. It’s decision time.”

Chief Jackson came in, removed his hat, and sat down in the other chair.

He tipped his chin toward the report chits lying on Brian’s desk.

“Those are rock-solid. You noticed the priors?”

“Yup. I’ve just about made up my mind.”

“Just about, sir?”