out right away.” Joe took the rear-facing seat. “Last October we almost lost two Marines when a fire spread faster than we could get the platoon out of the field.”
“Fortunately January was wet, preventing the winds from doing their usual damage,” Leonard said. “Unless keeping pilots on the ground counts as damage.”
“When was the last time you flew?” Pete’s foot hit the pedal and the cart jolted forward.
“Yesterday. Sledge arranged for Stinger teams to act as aggressors. I showed up at the last minute and flew with a captain alongside my squadron commander.” Leonard grabbed the cart for support. “Are you insured to drive this thing, Pete?”
“Glad to see the east wind didn’t ground you at all,” Pete said. “Wish I coulda seen the look on Sledge’s face when you showed up to fly with his boys.”
“Pilots and your callsigns,” said Joe. “Who’s ‘Sledge’? What’s his major malfunction?”
“Besides bein’ a drunk-driving wife-beating philanderer?” Pete said sarcastically. “That would be none other than the infamous Lieutenant Colonel Melvin ‘Sledge’ Hammer. Other than his—minor—problems, he’s one of the Marine Corps’s finest leaders.”
“How do these unsatisfactory officers remain in the Marine Corps?” Joe asked as they rounded a sharp curve. “More worrisome—how the fuck do they get command of a squadron?”
“And a training squadron at that,” said Leonard. “Christ, Pete! Sure you’re not the drunk driver this morning?”
“Now Leon, you know I don’t need to be drunk to drive this bad.” Reverting to the topic, he answered, “I know how he got the job. General Laker loved the man. Treated him like a son.”
“Say no more,” Joe said. “General Laker. There’s a name I hadn’t heard in ages. His antics were legendary even among us ground-pounders.” Leonard quietly offered thanks as Pete stopped the cart at the first hole. “Now that General Laker’s retired, will Sledge get selected for colonel?” Joe asked, pulling a club out of his bag.
“Retired, my ass,” said Pete. “General Laker’s not only retired, he’s on life support!”
“So is Sledge’s career,” said Leonard, “if I have my way.”
“Shit.” Pete put on his gloves. “If a Jim Beam-drinking certifiable moron like Paul Laker can wear three stars, Sledge Hammer can certainly get his sorry ass selected for an eagle. Hell, all of us made it, didn’t we?”
Leonard squinted in the sunlight as he fished for his sunglasses. Finding them, he grinned at his close friend. “I disagree. Sledge and his kind haven’t faced reality. The days when the General Lakers of this world could whore about in every port and drink all day are over.”
Pete practiced his swing. “Well, then I say good riddance to bygone days and the dinosaurs of the past. Of course, it won’t make any difference for me. But you, Leon, hell, you got your star. That means you gotta start actin’ and thinkin’—which means not thinkin’ at all—like one of them—a general!”
Joe looked surprised. “Is the list out?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” answered Leonard. “Anyone who claims to know when President Clinton will sign it is delusional.”
“Just saying what everyone knows,” said Pete. “I’m sure you’re on it, too, Joe, but I don’t know how things work on the ground side of the house. Aviation I know.”
Joe was first to tee off. As Leonard swapped clubs, movement in the direction of the clubhouse distracted him. He looked up as a shop manager drove a cart in the direction of their threesome. At the same time, a pager went off. “Who brought his goddamned pager to a golf course on a beautiful Sunday morning like this?” asked Pete.
“We’re about to have company,” said Leonard as the manager approached.
“Colonel Spencer!” shouted the manager from a hundred yards away.
“A pager and a pro shop manager.” Leonard grew apprehensive. “I’d say we have a two-alarm emergency on our hands.” Without leaving his cart, the manager explained that Leonard had an urgent phone call at the club. Joe said he also needed to return to the club to make a call.
“You two are just gonna leave me out here by myself?” Pete moaned, lighting a cigarette.
“Yes,” Leonard yelled as they drove away. “I know what’s in my bag, you worthless jet jockey. If you take anything, I will find out.”
Within minutes, they were back at the clubhouse. “Colonel Spencer,” Leonard said as he took the phone. He listened as his command duty officer briefly explained the emergency. “What? Lieutenant Roberts, you mean that’s it? You’re in squadron 707, aren’t you? Good. Please give this so-called emergency message to Major Burr. Thank you, Lieutenant.” Leonard handed his phone to Joe, who dialed the number to his infantry regiment’s headquarters. “I’d wager we have the same message.” Leonard watched Joe’s face for clues. Sure enough, Joe’s look changed to one of disbelief and he slammed the phone down in its cradle. “Coughlin?”
“Coughlin,” replied Joe. “That meddlesome bastard.”
The manager drove Leonard and Joe back to the first hole, where they happily resumed their game. “Will someone tell me what in God’s name is goin’ on?” asked Pete. “What the fuck am I? Road kill? No one pages me and no one sends a damn pro shop manager after me.”
“Calm down, Pete,” said Leonard. “This doesn’t concern your jets—not this time, at least. Be glad. It appears that the Honorable Mr. Coughlin desires a helicopter flight Tuesday.”
“And a full-fledged ground-based dog-and-pony show,” Joe growled.
Leonard sympathized. “I hope your operational tempo isn’t as bad as mine.”
“Sounds like all Coughlin wants to do is show his face at Camp Pendleton for some free press time with Marines in the field,” Joe said.
“Coughlin?” asked Pete. “That lunatic? You gotta be shittin’ me! Both of you have to jump through hoops for that pompous—?” Pete grew red-faced. “You’re right, Joe. My predecessor loved the guy and gave him joy rides in our jets. Don’t ask me to do it, that’s all I got to say. I have more important things to do with my F-18s than play Disneyland to Congressmen and Senators—especially that bloated bastard!”
“Sounds like we’re all singing the same song,” said Leonard.
Joe’s voice lacked enthusiasm. “Let’s play the game and worry about this later.”
“Certainly,” answered Leonard. “Nothing we can do to help the Congressman now.”
“You’re damn right we’re continuin’ the game!” Pete declared. “No politician is screwin’ with my golf schedule.”
As they resumed, Leonard said, “Our predecessors were pulled from their golf courses with news like, ‘Colonel! The Japanese are bombing Pearl Harbor!’ or ‘Colonel! The North Koreans have crossed the thirty-eighth parallel!’ or ‘Colonel!
