The Command (4 page)

She told him yeah.

“So don't take it wrong if the guys don't talk to you. There'll be some shit— There'll be some stuff—”

“You can say ‘shit' and ‘asshole,' Petty Officer. My ears lost their virginity back when I worked at Ray's Tire and Auto.”

“Uh-huh, well, like I was sayin', there'll be shit along the way, but we're gonna work it out. And you just call me Mick, you don't need to do that Petty Officer Helm stuff unless there's an O around.”

“An ‘O'?”

“An O. A zero. You know, an officer. Or Chief Bendt. You got to work together, you don't do that day to day. Anyway, you got a rack? Oh, yeah, the women's bunkroom—we call it the Mustang Ranch.” He'd grinned. “Okay, we got a change of command this morning, you better hustle and get your whites out of your seabag. Remember to come right back after, we got a lot to get done today. You can meet the Wizard of Oz when we fall in. Flight deck, whites, half an hour, go.”

…

SO that now as everybody milled around the helo deck, gradually dispersing, Helm took her over to meet the khaki. Master Chief Bendt, the “Top Snipe,” was short and harried. Gray-black hair grew out of his ears, and his tobacco-stained fingers trembled like a rabbit's nose. He looked at her for a half second and said to get her lined up fast, issue her coveralls and gear, they'd be getting under way soon for the exercise. Then he turned away, nuking a cig. The main propulsion officer, Lieutenant (junior grade) Osmani—the Wizard of Oz, right—was younger, and not bad looking. Rangy, his uniform tailored better than the chief's, with a dark complexion. He shook her hand, but his look skated around the fantail, the sky, everywhere but at her. “What's up with the ankle?”

“I sprained it in boot camp. Sir. It's feeling better, though.”

“Been on a mixed ship before?”

“This is my first ship, sir. Boot camp's integrated now, though.”

“Well, you'll like this better than boot camp. We'll see some good liberty ports, we're a MEF deployer.”

“I'm not sure what that is, sir.”

“Mideast Force, means we deploy to the Persian Gulf. So we'll see a Med liberty and then do the Suez Canal. Jebal Ali and Bahrain, maybe Oman. You'll see the world, Fireman Kassie.”

“Kasson, sir. I'll try to do a good job for the division.”

Osmani said to come see him if she had any questions, then let her go. She looked around. Helm was gone, but Ina stood by the door that led down to the main deck.

“So, wot're you doing this afternoon, love?”

“I didn't sleep much last night. Maybe I better just crash.”

“Oh, no, you don't. 'Ow's the Strip sound? One of the fellows in my division has a van. Be at the brow at fifteen hundred. Wi' your bathing suit.”

She shuddered at the thought of her boot camp-issue suit, all she had with her. Well, maybe she could buy something. “Who else's going?”

“Me and Patryce, maybe Lourdes. Might be a girl from S-4, too. Come on, we'll have some sodding fun before we get under way. A bar. A dance place.”

She winced even thinking about dancing, on this ankle. But she didn't want to get marked as a loner. So she said, “Well, okay. If you're not going to stay out real late.”

“Where you 'eaded now?”

She remembered then Helm wanted her back in Main One. He was probably waiting for her there. She told Ina this, then limped quickly down the ladder and started changing with the other girls in the noisy crowded compartment. Two dozen sweaty women shouting at each other and throwing clothes and spraying deodorant.

She grinned suddenly buttoning her denim workshirt with
KASSON
stamped on the front. A sailor, aboard her first ship. Learning the gear. Tonight she'd hit the beach and hammer down a few brews.

Then her fingers slowed as she remembered what the new skipper had said. About being headed into danger, everyone having to pull together if they were going to make it. He sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

Who could tell? She might even be going to a war.

Y
OU! Sasquatch! Out, out, out!” Marty Marchetti yelled, kicking the biggest turkey out of the van. The name had just come to him, but it seemed to fit. The other melonheads rolled and tumbled out, too, fingers carefully lifted off triggers. They hit the ground running, sprinted fifteen or twenty yards, heads bobbing, sand spurting up from their boots, and flopped down clumsily, or went to one knee, racking the slides on their weapons to feed the first round.

The ground was speckled with silver coins of sun and moving blurs of shadow. A breeze from seaward brought the crash of the surf. But here in the close, trapped air of the pine woods back of the dunes, everybody was sweating. He was, too, under the harness, gear, the life vest he insisted every man who'd volunteered had to wear today.

The candidates for USS
Horn's
Maritime Intercept and Boarding Team, and Marchetti thought what a sorry bunch they were, wore blaze orange float coats and green nylon pistol belts and black leather holsters. They wore steel-toed work boots. They wore blue
Horn
ball caps and high-impact goggles and carried the weapons they'd just been issued like they were afraid of them. This would be close quarters battle. Where you didn't see the guy who wanted to kill you till you were practically face to face.

He got them moving toward the red-roofed building that waited ominously beyond the whispering pines.

He oriented and scanned, looking for the enemy, but didn't see them. They were there, though. He'd seen them go in: two black-clad figures who moved with a graceful lope, more a shuffle than a run, heads weaving, scissoring to cover each other as they ran.

“Sweep Two—”

“Who's that, Senior?”

“Krippner, Danchuk—you two take the right flank. Sweep Team One, stay with me. And talk to each other, goddamn it.”

This kind of work was out of their line for destroyer sailors, but then again, not that far out, considering where they were headed. He'd done a hundred and two boardings over his last two deployments. Over that time he'd come to realize the navy wasn't giving the whole small-arms readiness, ship's security, boarding and search thing anywhere near enough attention. It was low tech. No computers or missiles. Just one of those brown-water missions the navy always tried to push off on the marines or the coast guard or the reserves. The boarding team on a Spruance-class was typically one or two of the gunner's mates dogging whoever their chiefs or division officers thought liked running around with a rifle or, worst case, whoever they didn't want in their own rate.

They made it to the building without taking fire, though he felt exposed as hell. The guys in black were in there somewhere, waiting. He hustled the team in through a hangar door, shouting, trying to get them talking to each other. But their voices seemed to travel out and then stop, lost beneath the cavernous trusswork ceiling. This shadowed air smelled like old gunpowder. No glass in the windows, but lots on the floor, a green jagged glitter like the aftermath of a riot. Rusty Conex boxes and steel plates and old torpedo shipping containers were scattered across the stained concrete.

He sucked air, eyes darting from gloom to gloom. The weapon was heavy, and he had to keep bringing it up, searching over the barrel for a face or a flash of movement. Where the fuck were they?

Suddenly, there they were. A ragged rapid
crack crack crack crack.
The number-one team was trying to get around one of the containers without getting shot. They discussed it, too loudly, then gave it a try. A clumsy high-low, and the second one stepped out, fire clattered, two guns going full auto. The kid did a half turn and stumbled back, mouth gaped. A splotch of red oozed over his life vest.

The second team was supposed to be working up the right side, giving them supporting fire, but one had decided to anchor himself behind cover. The other was more aggressive, Marty liked the way he moved, low and graceful, holding his weapon in line with his eyes. Lizard, he called him in his mind. Yeah.

Marty moved after them. The kid looked back, saw him, winked. The other guy still frozen behind cover. Hopeless. Forget him.

A round came out of the darkness so close past his ear he felt the wind. He was silhouetted, goddamn it, should have closed the doors as he came in. He ducked back, then came out sprinting, firing a burst as he went to keep their heads down. He made it to the barrier, and
yelled, “He's to your right—my two o'clock.” Saw the big guy looking to him, uncertain, and yelled at him to get the fuck out of there.

Sasquatch did, and instantly caught a round to the head. He gripped his skull and staggered back behind the wall. Marty hesitated. Two down. It was all going wrong, maybe they should just try to get out. No. They had to go forward. But nobody was going to move until he did.

He faked left and came out of cover running and firing blindly into the dark. Too late, saw the guy aiming at him from behind a wall. He tried to get his sights around, put fire on him, but instead heard the
whap
of a solid hit to the center of his chest. Like getting smacked with the tip of a whip—stinging pain succeeded instantly by numbness. Wet droplets sprayed his face. He felt his legs go in shock and surprise.

“Okay, that's enough.” The range safety officer blew his whistle and stepped out of the corner. “Sorry, that isn't gonna do it. Let's try that again.”

And he got to his feet as they lowered their rifles and checked their magazines, pulled paintballs out of their pockets, reloaded. Breathing hard, legs shaking, because it was all just too fucking much like the real thing.

GUNNER'S Mate Senior Chief Martin A. Marchetti had been in the U.S. Navy for seventeen years. He wore his hair buzzed, stood a fathom even, and pressed three hundred pounds. Elaborate Chinese dragons in four colors uncoiled down from shoulders on which every muscle group stood out in relief. He'd brought the guys out today to try out for what various navy pubs called the VBSS, SART, MIB Team, or Tiger Team. The guys who reacted fast, shot straight, and thought ahead, he'd keep.

Getting the ship's boarding and search team up to speed was part of
Horn's
pre-overseas workup. But not a big part, to judge by the training schedule. All the squadron weenies wanted was a couple of boat drills and some paper punched at the range.

Marchetti didn't think this set the bar high enough. The guys in the black outfits and masks were from SEAL Team Six, based here at Dam Neck. He wasn't going to get his boys anywhere near their standards, but he could give them some idea of what it was like to get shot at.

They squatted on the grass, listening to the safety officer, Devlin, in a flight suit, black turtleneck, and black ball cap, explain how to take a corner. “A ship's made out of corners. If you can control them, you'll
win the engagement. This is a game of percentages. You get them on your side—strong side, weak side, cross fire, communication, mindset—you'll walk out instead of getting dragged out.”

This he could use. But along with listening, Marty was watching the men around him. Who was tuned in. Who didn't care. Who'd kept up on the run that morning. You didn't have to be able to run five miles to board and search a ship, but you had to be in good shape. Especially if things went to shit.

Like they had for him, a couple of times.

AT lunchtime Devlin said he was going to the Shifting Sands, did Mar-chetti want to ride over? So he made sure Goldstine had the weapons and ammo locked up—they'd shoot live fire that afternoon on pop-up targets—and sent the rest of them to the mess hall. He got into Devlin's Ram and they went over to the club.

They were drinking Diet Cokes at the bar, Marchetti admiring the titanium Luminox on Devlin's wrist, when a hand fell on his shoulder. “Martini Fucking Machete. I thought that was you.”

“Jeez—Zebie?” He flipped the other chief's lapel. “They making jerk-waters like you master chiefs?”

“Just got to be in the right rate, guy.”

Zebie Chesko was heavier than he remembered. A lot of guys let themselves go once they put on khaki. Marty flashed on a slim youngster smoking a Lucky in front of a five-inch thirty-eight. They'd been seamen then, on the old
Albany.
He introduced Devlin, told Chesko his division was doing some tactical training.

They ended up at a table, waiting for steak sandwiches and listening to Faith Hill in the beer-smelling dim. Chesko said he was at the shipyard in Portsmouth. He was in Virginia Beach to check out a rental for the last summer his daughter would be with them before she went to Hollins on a basketball scholarship. What was he doing? Marty said Rosa was history. The last he'd heard, she was a receptionist at a funeral home in Chattanooga. Chesko said that sucked. Marty said it actually didn't, the sex was the same, but the dishes piled up. And he was on
Horn,
ginning up to head back to the Gulf.

“Horn?
No shit, you on the fuckin' USS
PMS?
” Chesko put down his beer. “Hey, know why they let women in the navy? So the officers can fuck face to face for a change.”

“Women?” said Devlin.

Marchetti said, “Not in my work center, thank God. They're mostly in the hole with the snipes.”

“We got them all over the yard now. Hard hats and tool belts and little bouncing cheeks. Their minds are on their fuckin' wombs, not their fuckin' jobs.”

“Not like some guys I know, do their thinking with their dicks.” Marchetti toasted him with his burger.

“So, what's it like?”

“Fuck if I know. They only been there a couple weeks,” Marchetti said. “I don't think they're gonna stay, myself. It's tough duty, destroyers.”

Devlin didn't say anything. Marchetti got the message very loud: the only tough duty was whatever SEALs did. He didn't buy it. He figured, him and Devlin, even money. But it wasn't worth starting trouble over.