“Why you packed up, Ding?” Mitchell asked.
“They need me at Benning early – that’s, uh, that’s why they flew me back this morning.”
“The lieutenant know?”
“They musta told him – well, they musta told the company clerk, right?” Chavez was a little embarrassed. Lying to his platoon sergeant bothered him. Bob Mitchell had been a friend and a teacher for his nearly four years at Fort Ord. But his orders came from a colonel.
“Ding, one thing you still have to learn about is paperwork. Come on, son. The ell-tee’s in his office.”
Lieutenant Timothy Washington Jackson, Infantry, hadn’t cleaned up yet, but was almost ready to leave for his place in the bachelor officers’ quarters, called the BOQ, or merely The Q. He looked up to see two of his senior NCOs.
“Lieutenant, Chavez here’s got orders to skip off to Fort Benning PDQ. They’re picking him up this evening.”
“So I hear. I just got a call from the battalion sergeant major. What the hell gives? We don’t do things this way,” Jackson growled. “How long?”
“Eighteen hundred, sir.”
“Super. I gotta go and get cleaned up before I see the S-3. Sergeant Mitchell, can you handle the equipment records?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, I’ll be back at seventeen hundred to finish things up. Chavez, don’t leave before I get back.”
*
The rest of the afternoon passed quickly. Mitchell was willing to handle shipping – there wasn’t that much to ship – and squared the younger man away, with a few lessons tossed in on the better ways to expedite paperwork. Lieutenant Jackson was back on time, and brought both men into his office. It was quiet. Most of the platoon was already gone for a well-deserved night on the town.
“Ding, I ain’t ready to lose you yet. We haven’t decided who takes the squad over. You were talking about Ozkanian, Sergeant Mitchell?”
“That’s right, sir. What d’you think, Chavez?”
“He’s about ready,” Ding judged.
“Okay, we’ll give Corporal Ozkanian a shot at it. You’re lucky, Chavez,” Lieutenant Jackson said next. “I got caught up on all my paperwork right before we went into the field. You want me to go over your evaluation with you?”
“Just the high spots’ll be fine, sir.” Chavez grinned. The lieutenant liked him, and Chavez knew it.
“Okay, I say you’re damned good, which you are. Sorry to lose you this quick. You going to need a lift?” Jackson asked.
“No problem, sir. I was planning to walk over.”
“Crap. We all did enough walking last night. Load your stuff into my car.” The lieutenant tossed him the keys. “Anything else, Sergeant Mitchell?”
“Nothin’ that can’t wait until Monday, sir. I figure we earned ourselves a nice restful weekend.”
“As always, your judgment is impeccable. My brother’s in town, and I’m gone till 0600 Monday morning.”
“Roger that. Have a good one, sir.”
Chavez didn’t have much in the way of personal gear, and, unusually, didn’t even have a car. In fact he was saving his money to buy a Chevy Corvette, the car that had fascinated him since boyhood, and was within five thousand dollars of being able to pay cash for one. His baggage was already loaded into the back of Jackson’s Honda CVCC when the lieutenant emerged from the barracks. Chavez tossed him the keys back.
“Where they picking you up?”
“Division G-1 is what the man said, sir.”
“Why there? Why not Martinez Hall?” Jackson asked as he started up. Martinez was the customary processing facility.
“Lieutenant, I just go where they tell me.”
Jackson laughed at that. “Don’t we all?”
It only took a couple of minutes. Jackson dropped Chavez off with a handshake. There were five other soldiers there, the lieutenant noted briefly. All sergeants, which was something of a surprise. All looked Hispanic, too. He knew two of them. León was in Ben Tucker’s platoon, 4th of the 17th, and Mufioz was with divisional recon. Those were two good ones, too. Lieutenant Jackson shrugged it off as he drove away.
3. The Panache Procedure
WEGENER’S INSPECTION CAME before lunch instead of after. There wasn’t much to complain about. Chief Riley had been there first. Except for some paint cans and brushes that were actually in use – painting a ship is something that never begins or ends; it just is – there was no loose gear in view. The ship’s gun was properly trained in and secured, as were the anchor chains. Lifelines were taut, and hatches dogged down tight in anticipation of the evening storm. A few off-duty sailors lounged here and there, reading or sunning themselves. These leapt to their feet at Riley’s rumbling “Attention on deck!” One third-class was reading a Playboy. Wegener informed him good-naturedly that he’d have to watch out for that on the next cruise, as three female crewmen were scheduled to join the ship in less than two weeks’ time, and it wouldn’t do to offend their sensibilities. That Panache had none aboard at the moment was a statistical anomaly, and the change didn’t trouble the captain greatly, though his senior chiefs were skeptical to say the least. There was also the problem of who got to use the plumbing when, since female crewmen had not been anticipated by the cutter’s designers. It was the first time today that Red Wegener had had something to smile about. The problems of taking women to sea… and the smile died again as the images from the videotape came back to him. Those two women – no, a woman and a little girl – had gone to sea, too, hadn’t they… ?
It just wouldn’t go away.
Wegener looked around and saw the questions forming on the faces of the men around him. The skipper was pissed about something. They didn’t know what it was, but knew that you don’t want to be around the captain when he was mad about something. Then they saw his face change. The captain had just asked himself a question, they thought.
“Looks all right to me, people. Let’s make sure we keep it that way.” He nodded and walked forward to his stateroom. Once there he summoned Chief Oreza.
The quartermaster arrived within a minute. Panache wasn’t big enough to allow a longer walk than that. “You called, Captain?”
“Close the door, Portagee, and grab a seat.”
The master chief quartermaster was of Portuguese extraction, but his accent was New England. Like Bob Riley he was a consummate seaman, and like his captain he was also a gifted instructor. A whole generation of Coast Guard officers had learned the use of the sextant from this swarthy, overweight professional. It was men like Manuel Oreza who really ran the Coast Guard, and Wegener occasionally regretted leaving their ranks for officer status. But he hadn’t left them entirely, and in private Wegener and Oreza still communicated on a first-name basis.
“I saw the tape of the boarding, Red,” Oreza said, reading his captain’s mind. “You shoulda let Riley snap the little fucker in half.”
“That’s not the way we’re supposed to do things,” Wegener said somewhat lamely.
“Piracy, murder, and rape – toss in the drugs for fun.” The quartermaster shrugged his shoulders. “I know what we oughta do with people like that. Problem is, nobody ever does.”
Wegener knew what he meant. Although there was a new federal death-penalty law to deal with drug-related murders, it had only rarely been invoked. The problem was simply that every drug dealer arrested knew someone bigger who was even more desirable a target – the really big ones never placed themselves in a position where the supposed long arm of the law could reach. Federal law-enforcement agencies might have been omnipotent within U.S. borders, and the Coast Guard might have plenipotentiary powers at sea – even to the point where they were allowed to board and search numerous foreign-flag ships at will – but there were always limits. There had to be. The enemy knew what those limits were, and it was really a simple thing to adapt to them. This was a game whose fixed rules applied only to one side; the other was free to redefine its own rules at will. It was simple for the big boys in the drug trade to keep clear, and there were always plenty of smaller fry to take their chances on the dangerous parts – especially since their pay exceeded that of any army in history. These foot soldiers were dangerous and clever enough to make the contest difficult – but even when you caught them, they were always able to trade their knowledge for partial immunity.
The result was that nobody ever seemed to pay in full. Except the victims, of course. Wegener’s train of thought was interrupted by something even worse.
“You know, Red, these two might get off entirely.”
“Hold it, Portagee, I can’t -”
“My oldest girl is in law school, skipper. You want to know the really bad news?” the chief asked darkly.