The Razor nodded and stuck his head out the door. “In!” he commanded.
Ellsworth and Sterling marched into the office and centered themselves in front of Murdock’s desk, remaining at attention.
“They’ve both been informed of their rights under Article 32,” said the Razor.
“That right?” Murdock asked them.
“Yes, sir,” they both said.
Roselli began. “Sir, these … these two little diddy-boppers got in the firewater last night and danced their way into a real hairball.”
Murdock got a real kick out of his chief’s tone of righteous outrage. In his years with the teams Razor Roselli had destroyed more bars, worldwide, than insurance arson. But that was how SEAL chief petty officers were made. When Razor was a troop and fucked up, the platoon chief had hammered him. Now that he was a platoon chief, it was his turn to be Dad. On another level, though, it made Murdock uneasy. If the Razor was going to make the two of them stand at attention while he told the tale, it had to be a real beaut.
The Razor continued. “You’re aware of the carnival that’s been on base the past week, sir?”
It wasn’t fitting together, but Murdock had hopes. “The one for the kids, right? Rides and games and all that?” What did they do, he wondered, fuck someone’s daughter on top of the Ferris wheel?
“Yes, sir,” Razor said crisply. “They also had some animals. It seems that a camel went missing last night.”
“A camel?” Murdock asked in disbelief, shooting up straight in his chair and staring at Doc and Jaybird. They were giving him the innocent puppy-dog look. “You mean a full-size, Mark-I camel? Hump and all?”
“That’s right, sir,” the Razor went on, straight-faced. “This camel disappeared from the carnival, and then turned up again in the process of being inserted into the garage of the Special Warfare Group commanding officer.”
“Not Commodore Harkins,” Murdock pleaded with Doc and Jaybird. “Not his fucking personal quarters.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” the Razor assured him, while beads of sweat began to break out on Jaybird and Doc’s upper lips. “These two were interrupted in the act by Chief Master at Arms Marlowe, who was on patrol at the time.”
“You got caught?” Murdock bellowed. Doing the crime was one thing, but a SEAL getting caught in the act was unforgivable.”
“We thought about killing him,” Jaybird blurted out. “But we figured you’d be even more pissed.” He caught the chief’s fiery look, and added, way too late, “Sir.”
“Chief Marlowe is an old buddy of mine, sir,” said the Razor. “He brought the incident to my attention, and we handled it chief-to-chief.”
Murdock had to strain to keep from letting out an audible groan of relief. Chief-to-chief was the only thing that kept the Navy running, not to mention officers like himself out of courts-martial. “Is the camel okay?”
“Operational, sir, and returned to its rightful owners.”
“They don’t want to press charges?”
“No, sir. They were a little steamed about what was on the camel, but I managed to smooth things over.”
Murdock knew he was going to be sorry, but he had to know. “Okay, what was on the camel?”
“The number seven, sir.”
“A seven?” Murdock flashed a massively pissed-off look at his two miscreants; they both wilted. “Oh, that’s good. That’s very fucking good. You two should instruct operational security. And of course while the Commodore was standing in a pile of camel shit in his garage this morning, he’d never look at that number and make any connection with Team Seven. No, noooo, not ever. Brilliant, just fucking brilliant.”
The two looked like they were trying to dissolve into the deck. “Was it painted on?” Murdock asked no one in particular.
“What’s that, sir?” asked the Razor.
“The number, was it painted on?”
“No, sir.”
“Well?” Murdock demanded.
“It was shaved on,” the chief said finally.
“Shaved on? Where?”
“On its ass, sir.”
Doc and Jaybird dissolved into giggles, which only ended when the chief gave Jaybird a mild open-handed slap across the back of the head.
Murdock stared at his framed commission on the wall for inspiration. He was no expert on camels, but from what he’d heard about their general temperament, it was hard to imagine one standing still for having its ass shaved by a couple of drunken SEALS. Then again, he wouldn’t put it past Doc Ellsworth to whip up some kind of camel tranquilizer … no, no, it was best not to even think about things like that. What you didn’t know you couldn’t testify to.
“Let me sum this up,” he said. “You drank enough alcohol to turn the higher function areas of your brains into Vaseline. Then, when you had become just stupid enough, you stole a camel, which I assume costs enough to knock this gig into the major felony class. Then you were going to tether this live camel, marked with everything except my name, rank, and social security number, in the garage of the quarters, the home, of the Commodore who personally commands all the teams, special boat squadrons, detachments, and units in the West Coast and Pacific theater of operations. The man who writes our commanding officer’s fitness report and reviews mine. Does that about cover it?”
Ellsworth and Sterling merely shrugged, as if it had all seemed like a much better idea the night before.
Murdock let them sweat for a while longer. “Okay,” he said to the two. “Your choice. Captain’s mast or platoon punishment.”
“Platoon punishment, sir,” they both blurted out. The Razor would take it out of their ass a lot worse than the commander, but they’d keep their rates, and their record books would stay clean.
“Is that all, sir?” the Razor requested.
Murdock nodded.
“Out!” the chief hissed at Jaybird and Doc.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Murdock and Roselli stared at each other. Then they both burst into laughter.
“A fucking camel,” the Razor wheezed, holding onto a chair for support.
“The fucking Commodore,” Murdock moaned.
“A seven on its ass,” the Razor said weakly. “We can only give thanks that they got caught. Fuck, I know alcohol affects the judgment, but come on!”
“Nice save on that, Razor.”
“We were lucky, Boss.” The chief started laughing again. “Standing in camel shit.” I thought I was really gonna lose it when you said that.” He shook his head. “And this commodore? You know what a tight-ass he is? It would have been a shit-storm around here. If they decided not to shoot us, we’d all be assigned to the cold-weather detachment in Kodiak for the rest of our careers.”
“The only thing I don’t know is how Master Chief Mac kept a straight face on the quarterdeck,” Murdock mused.
“The word is going to get around,” said the Razor. “This is a minor SEAL legend in the making.”
“Just as long as the Skipper doesn’t hear about it until after I get orders out,” said Murdock. “And just as long as no one else in the platoon gets the idea to one-up this little stunt.”
“They won’t,” the chief said confidently. “Not after they see the pound of flesh I’m gonna take out of Jaybird’s and Doc’s asses.
Just then Lieutenant j.g. DeWitt stomped into the office, his face crimson. “Man,” he announced. “The Master Chief really ripped me a new asshole this morning. He never got so hung up on my fucking belt buckle when he was in the platoon.”
Murdock and Razor looked at each other, and exploded into laughter again.
“It’s not that fucking funny,” DeWitt said huffily.
“Oh, yes, it is,” said Razor Roselli.
“We’ve got to get these boys out of town,” Murdock said to his chief.
“The trucks are scheduled for 0730,” said the Razor. “Which means they’ll probably show up sometime after 0900.”