“Lieutenant, I need you as a backup for Splash,” said Knowlington sharply. “I need you on the runway no later than 0400. I’ll brief you at 0230. Good night.”
The tent shook as the colonel turned sharply on his heel and left without acknowledging her presence or nakedness.
“Fuck,” said Dixon.
Becky turned over, then slowly pulled her hands away from her eyes. She gazed at him, pale and beautiful in the dim light of the tent. Then she began to laugh.
CHAPTER 30
To be a first sergeant of any military organization is to be a philosopher. True, all first sergeants — all sergeants, period — are practical engineers, skilled in the sciences of organization and bureaucracy, to say nothing of bullshit. To reach the exalted level of master sergeant, a man — or woman — must master the twin arts of motivation and discipline; he or she must be more skilled at politics than any candidate for President. He or she must practice the art of war in a way that would humble Sun Tzu, though of course the best sergeants never needed to fire a weapon, for the enemy retreats at the mere hint of their approach.
In a chief master sergeant, genius exerts itself without appearing to sweat. Procurement, persuasion, prophecy — no Greek god or goddess ever had half the attributes of a chief master sergeant, whose very grunt or growl could send an army to glorious victory.
But a first sergeant, a leader of men and minder of officers — a first sergeant also had to be a genius of thought, a translator of the ethereal and timeless. For who but a first sergeant could properly frame the unending questions of life? Who but a first sergeant could say, with a straight face and great authority, This is this? Who but a first sergeant could look at a glass and declare that it was neither half full nor half empty, but rather, a symbol of man’s status in the universe.
And the best damn beer he’d quaffed in at least twenty-four hours.
“The best,” repeated the capo di capo from the armchair in his over-sized temp tent in the heart of Tent City.
“Better than that porter Elwell brought in from Czechoslovakia,” agreed Sergeant Melfi, sitting on the capo’s right. Despite being a mere staff sergeant, Melfi showed great promise — as did all of the capo’s hand-picked minions.
“Czechs don’t make porter,” said Technical Sergeant Luce dismissively.
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Clyston. “Blanket statements like that will get you in trouble every time.” He took a long sip from his glass savoring the bouquet. Since he was in a war zone, he limited himself to two beers each night, lingering far longer over each glass than he would do under any other circumstance. But self-restraint sharpened the palate.
“As a general rule, Czech porter is not the best porter,” said Luce, amending his pronouncement. “Now, you want to talk about pilsners — that’s a whole different kettle of yeast.”
Clyston snorted approvingly at Luce’s turn of phrase. “Gentlemen, I believe it’s time for a smoke,” he said, reaching for the humidor below his chair. He opened it and removed a large Cuban Partagas Lusitania, then offered the polished walnut box to Melfi, who selected a Punch in the robusto size. Luce, as was his custom, passed.
They had just lit up when Aaron Racid, an E-4 ordnance loader or candyman, rushed into the tent without knocking — a violation of protocol so serious that it could only be caused by a crisis.
Which it was.
“Devereaux’s sitting on a Maverick and won’t get off,” the black weapons specialist told his capo. “Swear to God, Chief. Lost his fucking mind. Lost his fuck-ing mind.”
Clyston put down his beer and unfolded himself from the chair. “I’ll be back,” he told his men, stoking the flame of his double corona with a big puff of his cigar before following Racid out toward Oz.
Seven Hogs sat in various stages of dress in and around the hangars. The day’s bombing runs had been relatively easy for the Devil Squadron, and none had been damaged or even nicked. With no major maintenance tasks and hours before most of the squadron needed to be at the flight line, only a light crew was on duty. The candymen were supposed to be loading up a pair of Hogs that Colonel Knowlington wanted to use to support a covert deep-strike mission.
Racid’s description had not been entirely accurate — Devereaux sat on two Mavericks, his butt on one and his legs on the other. Both missiles were on low-slung trolleys directly in front of Devil Five. Two other bomb loaders stood several feet away, throwing worried looks at Racid.
“Devereaux, what the F is going on?” said Clyston, looking not at Devereaux but the others. The men took half-steps backwards as he stopped, hands on his hips. “You guys find some coffee.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” they said in unison, disappearing.
Clyston turned toward Devereaux. The E-4 weighed at least 220 pounds. While the AGMs were safed and designed for semi-rough handling, it was never a good idea to treat any ordinance lightly, let alone as a couch.
“You resting?” Clyston asked his man.
“No, Sergeant.”
“You intending on loading these?”
“I’d prefer not to.”
Now in theory, there were a million ways to handle a situation like this. The capo could ask for a clarification of what the hell “prefer not to” meant. Or he could skip the bull, give a direct order, and wait for it to be fulfilled. If it wasn’t — as seemed somewhat likely — he could have Devereaux forcibly removed, even placed under arrest. Charges could be brought or the man could be removed to medical care.
But the capo, mindful that the head on his perfect beer back at the tent was steadily dissipating, did not have time for anything so involved. He took a thoughtful puff on his cigar, and went to his ordie.
“Mind if I sit down?”
Devereaux shoved over slightly. Clyston gingerly placed himself on the Maverick next to him.
“Thinking of what these suckers can do, huh?” Clyston said.
Devereaux, who obviously had been, said nothing for a moment. Then he asked if the capo had ever heard Mozart’s “Requiem.”
“I was just listening to it, as a matter of fact,” said Clyston, who firmly believed that fibs in the line of duty were not fibs at all.
“Shows you how puny we are.”
“Not really,” said Clyston. “Shows what man is capable of — giving the angels a voice.” He hummed a small piece from the overture — the chief did, in fact, have a recording of the masterwork in his tent, along with many of Mozart’s other works.
Devereaux jerked his head around for a moment, then looked at the ground. “I don’t want to kill anybody, Chief.”
Funny, this kind of stuff never came up at the recruitment office. Clyston took a long puff on his cigar. One thing he had to give the Marxist bastard Cubans — they sure as shit knew how to roll tobacco.
“I know I’m not pulling the trigger,” continued Devereaux. “But no man’s an island.”
Donne and Mozart in the same conversation. Almost made flat beer worthwhile.
Not really. Still, it was an elevated sort of conversation. Bomb loaders as a class weren’t generally given to classical music and poetry, unless you numbered the Beastie Boys among the great masters.
Clyston exhaled the smoke from his cigar.
“Fate’s a funny thing,” he told his senior airman. “Puts you places you never thought you’d be.”
Devereaux nodded, then looked toward the sky. Clyston folded his left arm under his right, taking another long, slow drag on the cigar.