"Never expected Vallejo to go the way of Shit City," Douglas said from the cot opposite his. Norfolk, Virginia, had acquired that particular appellation decades before, making a living off the Navy personnel who lived and worked there, but treating them like dirt. That bit of service-civilian animosity lay mostly in the past, now, but there were still plenty of places where the civilians kicked servicemen in the face every chance they got, even while they were pocketing their money for shoddy service and watered-down drinks.
"Yeah," Jablonski said, "I hear ya." His arm was bandaged and in a sling, and he was sitting on the bare concrete floor with his back against the bars. All of them had been treated for cuts, scrapes, and bruises at the small SP dispensary upstairs. None of them had seen Boyce since they'd been brought in, and no one seemed to know what had become of him. "I thought Reagan was making a big comeback for the military, y'know?"
"Aw, some things never change," Scobey said. "Take our money, kick us in the balls. It's a goddamned conspiracy."
"Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" Benson said. "Here we are, supposed to be the front line of defense against the communists, and we get beaten up by punks in a public bar, and the owner sics the SPs on us! There ain't no justice!"
"Aw, pipe down, runt!" one of the other prisoners groaned. Benson wasn't surprised to see another Pittsburgh crewman. TM2 Mark Doershner was something of a bully, loud, brash, and obnoxious, a self-proclaimed tough guy who got by on the boat by being very good at what he did. "No one wants to hear it!"
"What's the matter, Doershner," Scobey said, grinning. "Too much to drink?"
"Aww… there was something in the whiskey at Brunnli's, man…. "
"Yeah, yeah, that's what they all say."
"Fuck you, man… "
A pair of Shore patrolmen appeared in the green-painted passageway outside the cell. "Awright, listen up!" a First Class petty officer yelled. "Who in here is off the Pittsburgh?"
Benson struggled to his feet, as did Douglas, Scobey, and Jablonski. On the far side of the holding cell, Doershner began moving toward the cell door, along with several other enlisted men off the Burgh — YM2 Erskine, SN2 Patterson, EM3 Hannacker. As the SP rattled a set of keys in the lock, the eight of them squeezed past the others and filed out through the drunk-tank door.
"Follow me, people," the SP ordered.
The holding tank was in the basement. Upstairs, at the front desk behind the building's front door, Master Chief Warren was waiting for them, accompanied by a pretty young woman.
Benson felt a start of recognition. It was the waitress from the Ram and Ewe, dressed more modestly now in blue jeans and a short-sleeved print blouse. "There he is!" she exclaimed to the COB.
"Fall in!" Warren barked.
The sailors managed an untidy line. Doershner and his pals were clearly drunk; Benson and his three friends were much the worse for wear after the brawl, sore, bruised, and battered. Benson remembered Sanders getting gigged for a spot of rust on his sleeve; the four of them were wearing white jumpers liberally splattered with their own blood.
"Okay, what's the story?" Warren demanded.
"Sir," Douglas said, "EM3 John Boyce was with us. I think he was injured in the fight." He nodded at the watching Shore Patrol petty officers. "We haven't seen him since these people took him away."
"Boyce is okay," Warren told them. "He had some cracked ribs, so they took him to the hospital. He's back aboard the 'Burgh now with a taped-up chest and a beaut of a black eye. What I want to know is what the hell happened?"
The woman crossed over to Benson and took his arm. "This man tried to help me, sir," she said. "Don't you dare punish him!"
"I can't promise that, miss." Warren placed his hands on his hips and looked at each of them. "Well?"
"We ran afoul of some of the locals, COB," Douglas said. "They'd taken over one of our usual hangouts."
"Who started the fight?"
"They did, COB."
"The manager says you people did it."
"Maybe because he figures the government'll pay up," Scobey suggested, "and the bikers won't give him squat."
"Or else he's afraid of 'em," Jablonski added.
"What about you guys?" Warren said, glaring now at Doershner, Erskine, Patterson, and Hannacker.
"We weren't even… there," Patterson said, hiccuping impressively in mid-sentence. Erskine appeared to be asleep on his feet.
Warren sighed. "I ought to leave the bunch of you to face mast with the SPs tomorrow morning," he said. "But Chief Dupres owes me a favor and I'm gonna call it in. Get your shit together and get out of here. We're going back to the boat."
"Hell, Master Chief," Jablonski said, "what do the SPs owe you?"
"Never mind. Just thank the luck of Davy Jones himself that the SPs picked you up, and not the local cops. I don't have nearly as much pull with them!"
"Excuse me, Master Chief," Douglas said, as they emerged from the building and into the cool night air, "but how'd you know we were here?"
"Miss Radley, here. She called the front gate, asking to talk to the skipper of the boat that just pulled in today. That would be us. She sounded pretty excited, so they routed her call through to me and I came out to talk to her. Jesus, Benson. According to her, you were playing the white knight in town tonight."
"Not really, COB…. "
"Stow it. You guys aren't off the hook, not by six thousand leagues. I had to promise that you would all go up in front of the Old Man, and you damned straight will." He hesitated. "All of you are with me… except you, Benson. But be damned sure you're back aboard when liberty expires at zero-six-hundred hours!"
"Aye aye, COB!" Benson exclaimed.
He watched with something like awe as the Chief of the Boat ushered the other seven sailors into the back of a truck waiting on the street, clambered into the passenger's side of the cab, and roared off into the night. He felt the woman's arms wrap themselves around his.
"I guess I have you to thank, huh?" he said. "I don't even know your name."
"Carol," she told him. "Carol Radley. I'm just sorry it took so long. I had to wait until my shift was over at ten, and then I didn't know who to call."
"You did just fine, ma'am. Just fine." He felt her squeeze his arm, and he couldn't tell if she was coming on to him, or just being nice. "Uh, I really appreciate what you did for me and the fellas."
"Uh-uh. I have to thank you. I haven't seen bravery like that outside of the movies!"
"Wasn't bravery. I just wasn't going to let that guy get away with acting like that."
"Exactly my point. Come on."
"Where?"
"Back to my place."
"Huh?"
"I want to put something on those cuts and scrapes, and maybe some raw meat for that bruise on your jaw. After that, we'll see."
Dazed and wondering if he were dreaming, Benson let her lead him to her car. " 'Squeeeee,'" he said.
8
It had taken almost three hours to get the kid to say something other than a tight-voiced "Yes, sir!" or "No, sir!" Commander Gordon had met him during the long flight out from Washington, when it had turned out that his assigned seat on the 737 was next to his own. Gordon had seen the kid's nervousness and started talking to him gently to see if he could get him to relax a bit. It wasn't that Gordon was feeling in a paternal way; he just didn't care for the idea of a four-hour flight with a nervous wreck strapped into the seat next to his.