“He’s a great cat captain, sir. You won’t regret this.”
“He’s a fuckin’ drunk. If we get him back to the ship without someone writing him up, he’s going straight to rehab.”
“Yessir. Come on, Ski, walk.”
The cat captain was trying. They came out of the alley and turned for fleet landing just as the Shore Patrol van pulled up. A lieutenant in whites with a Shore Patrol brassard on his left sleeve stepped out and saluted. Jake recognized him. He was a Hornet pilot on the United States.
“Want me to take him down to fleet landing, sir?”
“That means you have to write him up, right?”
“I’m supposed to, CAG.”
“I’ll get him down there, and this sailor here can get him back to the ship. I’ll talk to the XO about him tomorrow.”
“Yessir.”
“Thanks anyway.”
The lieutenant nodded.
“But while you’re here, there’s a bar up the alley you’d better visit. The bozo in the red-and-yellow shirt should go back to the ship in the van.”
“Yes, sir.” The officer turned and motioned to his men, who got out of the van and followed him up the alley.
Gardner and Jake managed to get Ski back to his feet. After much prodding, he staggered along with one of them on each side.
“Thanks, sir. He’s really a fine petty officer and a helluva guy.”
“Yeah.”
They had to pause several times for Ski to be sick. Some of it splashed on Jake’s shoes and trousers. A few drops of rain began to splatter on the pavement.
Just before they reached the boulevard by the Castel Nuovo, another Shore Patrol van pulled up. A chief in whites was driving. He leaned across the petty officer in the passenger seat. “Want us to take him on down to the landing?”
“That’s okay, Chief. We’ll manage.” The van’s wipers were smearing the water and dirt on the windshield.
“Bad night for booze, sir. Already got a half dozen drunks in here.” The chief jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“Naw,” Jake said. “I appreciate it. But we’ll get him there.”
“Aye aye, sir.” The chief let out the clutch and the van accelerated away.
“Com’on Ski. Walk! I hope to hell you’re worth our trouble.”
In the van one of the men spoke to the chief. “They took us for Americans, Colonel. We are going to succeed.”
Maybe, Qazi thought. If Allah wills it.
The carabinieri on the gate to the quay didn’t even look at Jake and Gardner as they marched Kowalski through. They followed the fence around to the right toward the area used by the carrier’s boats. The intermittent raindrops were falling steadily now. The Shore Patrol van was parked by the little duty shack and the chief was talking to the embarkation officer. Six drunks in civilian clothes lay facedown in casualty litters under the awning and two Shore Patrolmen were strapping them in.
“Got another basket?” Jake asked, holding Kowalski semi-erect with one hand and wiping the water from his hair with the other.
“Yessir. We have plenty,” said the embarkation officer, a lieutenant (junior grade) named Rhodes. He jerked his head at the chief, who stepped over to the pile of baskets behind the shack and helped Gardner lift one off. The chief helped Jake lower Kowalski into it.
“Mr. Rhodes,” Jake sighed as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve and watched Gardner struggle with the litter straps with his one good hand. The chief bent down to help. “There’s no report chit on this man. Just take him back to the ship and have him escorted to his bunk. I’ll see the XO about him in the morning.”
“Aye aye, sir. Oh, I have a message for you. Lieutenant Tarkington left it.”
“He showed up, huh?”
“Wandered in about two hours ago and I told him his liberty had been secured. He just nodded and asked for some paper. After he wrote this, he went back to the ship.” The duty officer passed Jake a folded square of paper, apparently a sheet from a notebook. On the outside was written “CAPT Grafton.”
Jake walked away, unfolding the paper. “Thanks, Chief.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Jake glanced back at the name tag. “Dustin.” The chief was in his early forties, dark hair flecked with gray, tanned and fit. No fat on that frame. “Aye aye, sir?” He should have said, “Yes, sir” or “You’re welcome, sir.” “Aye aye” was used only to respond to an order.
“Where do you work …”he started to ask Dustin, but the chief had already turned away as another Shore Patrol van pulled up. The lieutenant that Jake had talked to earlier stepped out and watched two of his men escort the drunk in the multicolored shirt over to the litters. What is that lieutenant’s name, Jake wondered. Oh yes, Flynn.
Flynn and Dustin were having a conversation. Jake stepped close enough to hear.
“Chief, where were you this evening when we mustered? I didn’t even know you and your guys were out here tonight.”
“We got off the ship late, Mr. Flynn. And they sent us out to pick up drunks.” The chief shrugged.
“Who is they? I’m in charge of detachment tonight, and I didn’t even know you were going to be here.”
“Someone screwed up, sir. I’m obviously here.”
Jake turned to observe. Flynn was referring to a sheet of paper on a clipboard.
“I don’t even see you on this list.”
“Sir, they told me to come ashore and bring two men and go look for drunks.”
“Who the hell is they?”
“My division officer.”
“He may have sent you ashore, but he didn’t tell you to go pick up drunks. Who did?”
“Some officer down in the Shore Patrol office. He was there when I arrived on the beach a couple hours ago.”
“Lieutenant Commander Harrison?”
“He was a lieutenant commander, sir. But I didn’t notice his name.”
“Well, he shouldn’t have told you that. I didn’t even know he was going to be in the office this evening. And with that shooting over at the Vittorio, I can think up better things for you to do than taxi drunks around. Let’s walk down to the office and get this straightened out.”
“Mr. Flynn,” Jake called. “What shooting?”
The lieutenant came over to him, the chief behind him. “There was an assassination tonight over at the Vittorio, CAG. Two guys wasted with submachine guns.”
“Americans?”
“Not navy, sir. A couple civilians. I hear one of them looks like he could be an Arab. Maybe terrorists.”
“When?”
“About eight.” The lieutenant glanced at his watch. “Three hours or so ago, sir.”
Jake nodded, and the officer and chief walked away, down the pier toward the terminal building. The Shore Patrol office was at the far end, on the second deck. Jake opened the note from Toad.
“Sir,” it read. “The duty officer says you are looking for me. I am going back to the ship. I tried to call you at the hotel but got no answer. I need to talk to you URGENTLY on a very IMPORTANT matter. V/R, Tarkington. 20:50.” The “V/R” meant “very respectfully” and 20:50 was the time Toad wrote the note. Jake folded the paper and put it into his pocket.
He leaned against a pole. Seven drunks in litters was unusual. But it’s Saturday night, and they’ve been at sea for four months. Captain James was going to be busy with this lot next week. And some of them are probably air wing men, so he’ll send them to me. Jake sighed.
About fifty sailors in civilian clothes were standing, squatting, and sitting under the awning, watching the rain come down. Most had been drinking and they were in a cheerful mood. The banter was loud and light. The mike boat came sliding, toward the quay, its diesel engine falling silent as it coasted the last few yards to the early float.