The McBain Brief (20 page)

“You can land in Portsmouth for that,” I said.

“Not if they don't catch you, Peters,” Crawley said.

“Fat chance of getting away with it,” I said.

“You think they'd know who did it?” he asked. “Suppose the Old Man gets a hole in his head from a .45 swiped from the gun locker? Suppose . . .”

“You better knock that kind of talk off,” I warned. “That's mutiny, pal.”

“Mutiny, my ass. Suppose the .45 was dumped over the side? How would they prove who did it? You know how many guys are on this ship, Peters?”

“Yeah,” I said slowly.

“You wait and see,” he said. “Someday, somebody'll have the guts to do it. Goodbye, Old Man. And good riddance.”

“Yeah, but suppose . . .”

“The line's moving, Peters,” Crawley said.

The base sent
out a drone that afternoon, and we went out and shot at it. We didn't get back to the bay until about 1930, and then we had a late chow, and the Old Man announced that no movies would be shown on the boat deck that night because we'd missed the launch that brought the reels around. Findlay, the Chief Bo'sun asked him if we couldn't see the same movie we'd seen the night before, but he said, “I don't like seeing movies twice,” and that was the end of it.

I suppose I should have gone straight to bed because the mid watch was coming up, but instead I hung around abovedecks, trying to get some air. Guys had dumped their mattresses all over the ship, sleeping up there under the stars in their skivvies. There was no breeze, and it was hot as hell, and I'd already taken more salt pills than I should have. The sweat kept coming, the kind of sweat that stuck all your clothes to you and made you want to crawl out of your skin. A poker game was in session near the torpedo tubes amidships on the boat deck, and I watched it for a while, and then climbed the ladder down to the main deck.

Mr. Gannson was OD, and he slouched against the metal counter and threw the bull with Ferguson, the gunner's mate who was on with him as messenger. They both wore .45's strapped to their hips, and I passed them silently, nodding as I went by. I leaned over the rail just aft of the quarterdeck, looking down at the fluorescent sprinkles of water that lapped the sides of the ship. The water looked cool, and it made me feel more uncomfortable. I fired a cigarette and looked out to the lights of the base, and then I heard Mr. Gannson say, “You got a clip in that gun, Ferguson?”

I turned as Ferguson looked up with a puzzled look on his face. “Why, no, sir. You remember the ditty bag thing. We . . .”

“This is shakedown, Ferguson. The captain catch you with an empty sidearm, and you're up the creek.”

“But the ditty bag . . .”

“Never mind that. Get to the gun locker and load up.”

“Yes, sir,” Ferguson said.

The ditty bag he'd referred to had been hanging from one of the stanchions in the forward sleeping compartment. Davis, on fire watch, had gone down to relieve Pierto. The fire watch is just a guy who roams the ship, looking for fires and crap games
and making sure all the lights are out in the sleeping compartments after taps. I don't know why he rates a .45 on his hip, but he does. When you relieve the watch, you're supposed to check the weapon he gives you, make sure it's loaded, and all that bull. So Pierto handed Davis the gun, and Davis probably wasn't too used to .45's because he'd just made Radarman Third, and only non-commissioned officers stood fire watch on our ship. He yanked back the slide mechanism, looked into the breach the way he was supposed to, and then squeezed the trigger, and a goddamn big bullet came roaring out of the end of his gun. The bullet went right through the ditty bag, and then started ricocheting all over the compartment, bouncing from one bulkhead to another. It almost killed Klein when it finally lodged in his mattress. It had sounded like a goddamned skirmish down there, and it had attracted the OD.

Well, this was about two months ago, when we were still in Norfolk, and the skipper ordered that any sidearms carried aboard his ship would have no magazines in them from then on. That went for the guys standing gangway watch when we were tied up, too. They'd carry nothing in their rifles and nothing in the cartridge belts around their waists. Nobody gave a damn because there was nothing to shoot in the States anyway.

I watched Ferguson walk away from the quarterdeck and then head for the gun locker right opposite Sick Bay, the key to the heavy lock in his hands. I walked past the quarterdeck, too, and hung around in the midships passageway reading the dope sheet. I saw Ferguson twist the key in the hanging lock, and then undog the hatch. He pulled the hatch open, and stepped into the gun locker, and I left the midships passageway just as he flicked the light on inside.

“Hi,” I said, walking in.

He looked up, startled, and then said, “Oh, hi, Peters.”

The rifles were stacked in a rack alongside one bulkhead, and a dozen or so .45's hung from their holster belts on a bar welded to another bulkhead. Ferguson rooted around and finally came up with a metal box which he opened quickly. He turned his back to me and pulled out a magazine, and the ship rolled a little and the .45's on the bar swung a little. He moved closer to the light so he could see what the hell he was doing, his back still turned to me.

I threw back the flap on one of the holsters and yanked out a .45, the walnut stock heavy in my hand. I stuck the gun inside my shirt and into the band of my trousers, cold against my sweating stomach. I heard Ferguson ram the clip home into his own .45, and then he said, “Come on, Peters. I got to lock up.”

I followed him out, and even helped him dog the hatch. He snapped the lock, and I said, “Think I'll turn in.”

Ferguson nodded sourly. “You can sleep in this heat, you're a better man than I am, Gunga Din.”

I smiled and walked back aft toward the fantail. I wanted to sit down someplace and feel the gun in my hands. But it was so damned hot that every guy and his brother was abovedecks, either hanging around smoking or getting his mattress ready for the night. I went into the head, and the place was packed, as usual.

The gun was hot against my skin now, and I wanted to take it out and look at it, but I couldn't do that because I didn't want anyone to remember they'd seen me with a .45.

I kept hanging around waiting for the crowd to thin, but the crowd didn't thin. You couldn't sleep in all that heat, and nobody felt like trying. Before I knew it, it was 2345, and Ferguson was coming around to wake me for the mid watch. Only I wasn't sleeping, and he found me gassing near the aft five-inch mount.

“You're being paged, Peters,” he said.

“Okay,” I told him. I went forward, and then up the ladder to the passageway outside the radar shack. Centrella was sitting in front of the Sugar George, a writing pad open on his lap.

“Hi, boy,” I said. “You're liberated.”

“Allah be praised,” he said, smiling. He got to his feet and pointed to a speaker bolted into the overhead. “That's the only speaker you got, boy,” he said. “Nothing on it all night. Just static.”

“You're sure it's plugged in?”

“I'm sure. You take down anything for Cavalcade. That's ‘All ships.' You also take down anything for Wonderland. That's us.”

“No kidding,” I said.

“In case you didn't know, Peters.”

“Well, thanks,” I said, smiling.

“You'll probably get a weather report for Guantanamo Bay and vicinity pretty soon.” Centrella shrugged. “There's some joe in the pot, and I think those radio guys got a pie from the cook. They wouldn't give me none, and it's probably all gone by now. But maybe you got influence.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Okay, you relieving me?”

“The watch is relieved,” I said. “Go hit the sack.”

Centrella nodded and headed for the door. “Oh, yeah,” he said, turning, “the Old Man's in his cabin. He wants anything important brought right to him.”

“What does he consider important?” I asked.

“How the hell do I know?”

“That's a big help. Go to sleep, Centrella.”

“'Night,” he said, and then he stepped out into the passageway.

I was ready to close the door after him. I had the knob in my hand, when Parson stuck his wide palm against the metal.

“Hey, boy,” he said, “you ain't going to close the door in this heat?”

“Hi, Parson,” I said dully. I'd wanted to close the door so I could get a better look at the gun.

“You got any hot joe, man?” he asked.

“I think there's some,” I told him.

“Well, I got some pie. You like apple pie?”

He didn't wait for an answer. He shoved his way in, and put the pie down on one of the plotting boards. Then he went to the electric grill, shook the joe pot, and said, “Hell, enough here for a regiment.”

He took two white cups from the cabinet under the grille, and poured the joe. Then he reached under for the container of evap, and the sugar bowl. The radio shack was right down the passageway, you see, and most of the radio guys knew just where we kept everything. We went in there for coffee, too, whenever none was brewing in the radar shack, so that made things sort of even. Only, I could have done without Parson's company tonight.

“Come on, man,” he said, “dig in.”

I walked over to the plotting board and lifted a slice of pie, and Parson said, “How many sugars?”

“Two.”

He spooned the sugar into my coffee, stirred it for me, and handed me the steaming mug.

“This is great stuff on a hot night,” I told him.

“You should've asked for battleship duty,” Parson said. “They got ice cream parlors aboard them babies.”

“Yeah,” I said. The steam from the coffee rose up and touched my face, and I began to sweat more profusely. I put down the cup and reached for a handkerchief, and I was wiping my face when the Old Man popped in.

“
Attention!
” I shouted, and Parson leaped to his feet, almost knocking over his cup. The Old Man was in silk pajamas, and he stormed into the shack like something on a big black horse.

“At ease,” he shouted, and then he yelled, “What the hell is going on here, Peters?”

“We were just having a little coffee, sir. We . . .”

“What is this, the Automat? Where'd you get that pie?”

I looked to Parson, and Parson said, “One of the cooks, sir. He . . .”

“That's against my orders, Parson,” the skipper bellowed. “I don't like thieves aboard my . . .”

“Hell, sir, I didn't steal . . .”

“And I don't like profanity, either. Who's on watch here?”

“I am, sir,” I said.

“Where are you supposed to be, Parson?”

“Next door, sir. In the radio . . .”

“Am I to understand that you're supposed to be standing a radio watch at this time, Parson?”

“Yes, sir, but . . .”

“Then what the hell are you doing in here?” the Old Man roared.

“I thought I'd . . .”

“Get down to the OD, Parson. Tell him I've put you on report. This'll mean a Captain's Mast for you, sailor.”

“Sir,” I said, “he was only . . .”

“You shut up, Peters! I see you still haven't got that haircut.”

“We were out with the drone, sir. I couldn't . . .”

“Get it first thing tomorrow,” he said, ignoring the fact that we'd be out with the cruiser tomorrow. “And now you can dump that coffee pot over the side, and I want that sugar and milk returned to the mess hall.”

“I'm on watch, sir,” I said coldly.

“Do it when you're relieved, Peters.” He stood glaring at me, and then asked, “Were there any important messages, or were you too busy dining?”

“None, sir,” I said.

“All right. I'm going out to the boat deck now to get those men below. I don't like my ship looking like a garbage scow. Men aren't supposed to sleep abovedecks.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“I'll be there if anything comes for me. When I come back, you'll hear me going up the ladder outside. I'll be in my cabin then. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I said tightly.

“All right.” He walked out, and Parson watched him go and then said, “Someday that man's gonna get it, Dave. Someday.”

I didn't say anything. I watched Parson go down to the OD, and I thought:
Not someday. Now.

I heard the Old Man yelling out on the boat deck, and then I heard the grumbling as the guys out there stirred and began packing their mattresses and gear. I was sweating very heavily, and I didn't think it was from the heat this time. I could feel the hard outline of the .45 against my belly, and I wanted to rip the gun out and just run out onto the boat deck and pump the bastard full of holes, but that wasn't the smart way.

The smart way was to be in a spot where I could dump the gun over the side. I stepped out of the radar shack and looked down the passageway to where the skipper was waving his arms and ranting on the boat deck. There was a gun mount tacked to the side of the ship just outside the passageway and the radar shack. The hatch was closed, and I undid the dogs on it, and shoved it out, and then stepped outside, stationing myself near the magazine
box alongside the 20mm mount. I could see the ladder leading up to the bridge and the captain's cabin from where I was standing. My idea was to plug the captain, dump the gun, and then rush inside, as if I was just coming out of the radar shack after hearing the shot.

I could hear the captain ending his tirade, and I thought to myself that it was the last time he'd chew anybody out. I thought everybody was going to be real tickled about this. Hell, I'd probably get a medal from the crew. It was all over out there on the boat deck now, and I peeked into the passageway and saw the Old Man step through the hatch and glance briefly into the radio shack.