Marine at the noisy printer churning out pages of documents.
“Holy Mother of God!” shouted Sledge from his corner office.
“Damn!” she said. “He read about the congressman before I could break it to him gently.”
Sledge stormed into the outer office and the Marines returned to standing positions. “Delarosa! Did you know a goddamned congressman would be here tomorrow?” Sledge Hammer was a large man, both in height and in girth. Patrick wondered how he passed the Marine Corps’s annual physical fitness test, met the strict weight standards or even fit in the cockpit of a Cobra. He didn’t doubt the man pulled strings to get around the rules.
“I just found out about it, too, sir. Five minutes before you did.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? This should’ve been the first thing out of your mouth. Which congressman is it?” His question stumped the corporal. “Well, you better find out—now!”
The woman’s face brightened as she grabbed the logbook Tim had dropped off. Flipping through the pages, she stopped at the most recent entry. “The name is ‘Edward Coughlin,’ sir, from Orange County, California.” Patrick congratulated her quickness with a smile and a wink.
“Coughlin?” Sledge calmed down as he repeated the name. “At least he’s one of the good guys.” Reading the message in his hand, he added, “I don’t see why the fucking infantry can’t provide their own goddamned escort officer.” He stopped halfway across the room. “Hey, you there—McAbe—you ever been an escort officer before?” Patrick said he hadn’t. “You ever heard of a Congressman Coughlin?”
“No sir.” Sledge’s questions couldn’t be leading him to a good place.
“Today’s your lucky day. I’ve got to put together a whole goddamned dog-and-pony show and you get to help me since you’re the newest man in my squadron. Tomorrow morning you’ll be the escort officer for the Honorable Mr. Coughlin when he visits Camp Pendleton. If that piece-of-shit adjutant ever shows up for work, he can help you.” Sledge turned toward his office, but stopped midway. Looking directly at Patrick, he said, “McAbe—”
“Sir?”
“Don’t fuck this up. You’re not at flight school anymore—this is the real shit. Tomorrow’s your first impression in the Fleet Marine Force that counts for anything, you understand?”
He’d entered the legendary—even mystical—FMF. So much for being broken in easily. Suddenly he was nauseous. “Yes sir.”
“Delarosa, don’t let anyone interrupt me this morning. I’ve got my own goddamned assignment to complete. If Colonel Spencer calls, tell him I’m working on his project.” Sledge refilled his coffee mug, stepped into his office and slammed the door. Once again, the Marines returned to their seats.
“Damn, sir! Ever hear of the ‘Big Green Weenie’?” The corporal used a common Marine expression referring to the Corps’s habit of screwing over individual Marines.
“I have now.” Patrick laughed but wondered what kind of shit he’d stepped in.
“I request permission to come aboard.”
“Need to see some identification sir,” said the Sailor standing guard over the USS Cayuga’s entry point. Jay hoped the Sailor couldn’t discern that this was the first time he’d ever boarded a Navy vessel. Novices attracted too much attention, and requesting permission to come aboard exhausted Jay’s knowledge of embarkation protocol. He said as little as possible and remained alert. Showing the Sailor his NIS identification, he awaited instructions. “Sign in.” The Sailor pointed to a logbook beside the American flag. “What’s the purpose of your visit?”
“Urgent business with the captain involving a criminal investigation.”
“Very well, sir,” the Sailor said as Jay entered the required information into the logbook. “Wait here and an officer will be down to escort you up to the bridge.”
“Fifteen-mile forced march this Friday. Helmets, flak jackets, rifles and packs. Here’s a list of gear that every Marine will have in his pack.”
“Is the whole battalion marching?” asked Staff Sergeant George. “Or just our company?”
Don remained calm even though he wanted to punch the whiny staff sergeant in the face. Instead, he kept his voice firm and steady as he answered Charlie Company’s second platoon sergeant. “What do you think?”
“Damn it, Gunny! This is bullshit. You gotta talk to the captain. Charlie Company goes on more fifteen-, twenty-and twenty-five-mile humps than any infantry company I ever been in. Hell, Alpha Company ain’t been on a hump since—”
“You’re out of line, Staff Sergeant.” Don said, anger seeping into his voice. “First of all, I’m not Alpha’s Company gunny and I don’t give a shit what those fuckin’ slack-asses do. Second, you must be confused on how the chain of command works so let me explain it to you. The captain gives the orders around here and I make sure they’re carried out. I don’t tell him what to do—I tell you what to do and you tell your squad leaders and they tell their team leaders. Is that clear?” Don’s office was a cubbyhole in an old building tucked away in a remote section of Camp Pendleton. He barely had room for himself, his desk and the four cheap government-issued chairs he used for his daily meetings with Charlie Company’s platoon sergeants. The closeness of the space added to the tension between him and Staff Sergeant George.
“Damn it, George. Have your men ready to go Friday morning,” said the platoon sergeant for first platoon. “Try not to lose any Marines this time.”
“I’ll be doing random inspections at zero five hundred Friday morning,” Don said. “Be—”
Without warning, the wooden door to Don’s office smashed open. He jumped to his feet immediately. Only two people he knew dared to open his door without knocking. This time, though, the Marine leading the charge into his office was neither the captain nor the first sergeant, although both men followed closely behind. The man in front was the commanding officer of the battalion, Lieutenant Colonel Ritter.
“Gunny Hawkins, please forgive me for intruding on your meeting like this but we need to discuss something with you. In private.”
Staff Sergeant George looked relieved to be off the hot seat. He and the other platoon sergeants took their cue. “Pick it up with you later, Gunny.”
Don, standing at the position of attention, nodded to the staff sergeant. To the battalion commander he said, “It’s no intrusion, sir. What can Charlie Company do for you and the Marine Corps?” Don’s face remained stoic and his body stiff but he trembled inside. Moments like this reminded him that no matter how well he hid his personal life from the Corps and no matter how careful he was in his off-base behavior, a part of him lived in terror that the military would find out he was gay. He’d suffered terrifying nightmares with this scenario. The battalion commander—or higher—bursting through his door followed by military police. Some of his nightmares had been so real he’d felt the cold steel of handcuffs on his wrists as the MPs arrested him for sodomy and carted him off to the brig.
Lieutenant Colonel Ritter looked grim. “We learned about a serious problem this weekend, Gunny Hawkins—and I’m afraid it’s your problem.”
Don
