Jake examined the contents of the envelope. His airline tickets were still there, his wallet, change, and the ring. He pocketed the ring and counted the money in the wallet.
“Don’t see many white guys in here carrying diamond rings,” the cop said chattily.
Grafton wasn’t in the mood.
“Dopers seem to have pockets full of them,” the cop continued. “And burglars. You haven’t been crawling through any windows, have you?”
“Not lately.” Jake snapped his wallet shut and pocketed it.
“Bet it helps you get laid a lot.”
“Melts their panties. Poked your daughter last week.”
“Sign this receipt, butthole.”
Jake did so.
They led him out to a desk. His commanding officer, Commander Dick Donovan, was sitting in a straight-backed chair. He didn’t bother watching as Jake signed two more pieces of paper thrust at him by the desk sergeant. One was a promise to appear in three weeks for a preliminary hearing before a magistrate. Jake pocketed his copy.
“You’re free to go,” the sergeant said.
Donovan came out of his chair and headed for the door. Jake trailed along behind him.
In the parking lot Jake got into the passenger seat of Donovan’s car. Donovan still hadn’t said a word. He was a big man, easily six foot three, with wide shoulders and huge feet. He was the first bombardier-navigator (BN) to ever command the replacement squadron, VA-128.
“Thanks for bailing me out, Skipper.”
“I have a lot better things to do with my time than driving all the way to Seattle to bail an officer out of jail. An officer! A bar brawl! I almost didn’t come. I shouldn’t have. I wish I hadn’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t shit me, Mister. You aren’t sorry! You weren’t even drunk when you threw that guy through that window. You’d had exactly half of one beer. I read the police report and the witnesses’ statements. You aren’t sorry and you’ve got no excuse.”
“I’m sorry you had to drive down here, sir. I’m not sorry for what I did to that guy. He had it coming.”
“Just who do you think you are, Grafton? Some comic book superhero? Who gave you the right to punish every jerk out there that deserves it? That’s what cops and courts are for.”
“Okay, I shouldn’t have done it.”
“You’re breaking my heart.”
“Thanks for bailing me out. You didn’t have to do it. I know that.”
“Not that you give a good goddamn.”
“It really doesn’t matter.”
“What should I do with you now?”
“Whatever you feel you gotta do, Skipper. Write a bad fittie, letter of reprimand, court-martial, whatever. It’s your call. If you want, I’ll give you a letter of resignation tomorrow.”
“Just like that,” Donovan muttered.
“Just like that.”
“Is that what you want? Out of the Navy?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“Sir!” Donovan snarled.
“Sir.”
Donovan fell silent. He got on I-5 and headed north. He didn’t take the exit for the Mukilteo ferry, but stayed on the freeway. He was in no mood for the ferry. He was going the long way around, across the bridge at Deception Pass to Whid-bey Island.
Jake merely sat and watched the traffic. None of it mattered anymore. The guys who died in Vietnam, the ones who were maimed…all that carnage and suffering…just so assholes could insult them in airports? So college professors could sneer? So the lieutenants who survived could fret about their fitness reports while they climbed the career ladder rung by slippery rung?
June…in the year of our Lord 1973.
In Virginia his dad would be working from dawn to dark. His father knew the price that had to be paid, so he paid it, and he reaped the reward. The calves were born and thrived, the cattle gained weight, the crops grew and matured and were harvested.
Perhaps he should go back to Virginia, get some sort of job. He was tired of the uniform, tired of the paperwork, even…even tired of the flying. It was all so absolutely meaningless.
Donovan was guiding the car through Mount Vernon when he spoke again. “It took eighty-seven stitches to sew that guy up.”
Jake wasn’t paying attention. He made a polite noise.
“His balls were swollen up the size of oranges.” The skipper sighed. “Eighty-seven stitches is a lot, but there shouldn’t be any permanent injuries. Just some scars. So I talked to the prosecutor. There won’t be a trial.”
Jake grunted. He was half listening to Donovan now, but the commander’s words were just that, words.
“The prosecutor walked out from the Chosin Reservoir with the Fifth Marines,” Donovan continued. “He read the police report and the statements by the bartender and that crippled soldier. The police file and complaint are going to be lost.”
“Humpf,” Jake said.
“So you owe me five hundred bucks. Two hundred which I posted as bail and three hundred to replace that window you broke. You can write me a personal check.”
“Thanks, Skipper.”
“Of course, that jerk could try to cash in on his eighty-seven stitches if he can find a lawyer stupid enough to bring a civil suit. A jury might make you pay the hospital and doctor bill, but I doubt if they would give the guy a dime more than that. Never can tell about juries, though.”
“Eighty-seven,” Jake murmured.
“So you can pack your bags,” Donovan continued. “I’m sending you to the Marines. Process servers can’t get you if you’re in the middle of the Pacific.”
With a growing sense of horror Jake realized the import of Commander Donovan’s words. “The Marines?”
“Yeah. Marine A-6 outfit is going to sea on Columbia. They don’t have any pilots with carrier experience. BUPERS”—the Bureau of Naval Personnel—“is looking for some Navy volunteers to go to sea with them. Consider yourself volunteered.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Skipper!” he spluttered. “I just completed two ‘Nam cruises five months ago.” He fell silent, tongue-tied as the full implications of this disaster pressed in upon him.
Shore duty was the payback, the flying vacation from two combat cruises, the night cat shots, the night traps, getting shot at, shot up and shot down. Those nigh rides down the catapults…sweet Jesus how he had hated those. And the night approaches, in terrible weather, sometimes in a shot-up airplane, with never enough gas — it made him want to puke just thinking about that shit. And here was Tiny Dick Donovan proposing to send him right back to do eight or nine more months of it!
Aww, fuck! It just wasn’t fair!
“The gooks damn near killed me over North Vietnam a dozen times! It’s a miracle I’m still alive. And now you feed me a shit sandwich.”
That just popped out. Dick Donovan didn’t seem to hear. It dawned on Jake that the commander probably couldn’t be swayed with sour grapes.
In desperation, Jake attacked in the only direction remaining. “The jarheads maintain their planes with ball peen hammers and pipe wrenches,” he roared, his voice beyond its owner’s control. “Their planes are flying deathtraps.”
When Donovan didn’t reply to this indisputable truth, Jake lost the bubble completely. “You can’t do this to me! I—”
“Wanna bet?”
There were three staff instructors seated at stools at the bar nursing beers when Jake walked into the O Club. The afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows. If you squinted against the glare you could see the long lazy reach of Puget Sound, placid in the calm evening, more like a pond than an arm of the sea. If you looked closely though, you could see the rise and fall of gentle swells.