MacKenzie suddenly stepped between them, reaching out with two long arms and snagging both combatants by their collars. "I said knock it off, shitheads!" He didn't raise his voice, but the cold deadliness behind the words somehow penetrated the two SEALs' blind anger. "I don't give a shit, but the L-T wouldn't like to see you two kill each other. You boys read me?"
"Mac," Garcia said, panting. "That bastard..."
"Stow it, Boomer! Chill out!"
"Chief..."
"You too, Rattler. I said the L-T wouldn't like it!"
That stopped them cold. MacKenzie could feel the fight drain out of both men.
"Now shake hands."
They shook... then embraced, hugging each other warmly. MacKenzie stepped back, nodded approvingly, then turned to face the bar again.
"Aw, now ain't that sweet," he heard from the front of the restaurant. "The SEALies are hugging."
"Must be springtime," another voice said, a bass, gravelly rumble. "Mating season for fuckin' SEALS."
"You boys listen to your momma there and be nice to each other!"
The SEALs went dead quiet at the intrusion. A dozen strangers had entered the bar, and now they were closing slowly around the tight-knit group. They too wore civilian clothes, but the close-trimmed hair above their ears, "whitewalls" in military parlance, gave them away.
Marines. Marines out on liberty and cruising for trouble, from the look of them.
"You SEALies're making too damned much noise," one of the Marines growled. He was drill-sergeant lean, recruiting-poster handsome, and had the cold look of a competent killing machine.
"Yeah," a second man chorused. "A man can't hear hisself think." This one stood six-two and must have weighed two-fifty, all of it workout honed, chiseled, and sweat-polished slabs of muscle. When he lunged his blond head forward and scowled, he forcibly reminded MacKenzie of that wrestler guy on TV... what was his name? Hulk Hogan, yeah.
"Shouldn't be a problem for you shit-for-brains jar-heads then," Fernandez said, his argument with Garcia forgotten now. "Seein' as how you guys can't think anyhow."
"Ooh," the first Marine said, shaking his hand as though he'd burned it. "We got us a wise-ass tough-guy SEAL here, men. I think maybe we'd better house-break it, don't you guys?"
"Hey, no fighting in here!" a bartender called from behind the bar. "Take it outside before I call the SPs!"
"Aw, this won't take that long, Pops," another Marine said. "We just gonna do a little after-hours moppin'up for you here."
"Yeah, no fuckin' Navy puke SEAL alive can take on the Marines," the big guy said. He curled his forearm up, flexing it, and muscles popped and rippled impressively from wrist to bull-massive neck.
"So you grunts figure you're better'n SEALS, huh?" Roselli demanded, stepping closer. There was a nasty glint in his eye.
The big Marine apparently didn't see that glint or else was too drunk to care. "Fuck! All you SEALs are pussies! Right, guys?"
"Right on, Fred!" There was a chorus of assent, but Fred probably never heard it. Roselli had turned slightly, his hands had blurred, and then the Marine was hurtling through the air upside down, touching down neatly and briefly in a big bowl of popcorn on the bar, then somersaulting behind the bar with a shattering crash and a sudden snow flurry of snack food. Lucy screamed and scrambled to get off Holt before another flying body landed on her. The two SEALettes with Ellsworth shrieked and ducked under the table, while other Samelli's patrons ran for cover. A second Marine slammed face-first into a decorative wooden pillar, clung to it lovingly a moment, then slid limply to the deck.
Sipping his gin, MacKenzie briefly considered the tactics of the situation. Clearly, it was his duty as senior man present to break up the fight before someone got hurt or Samelli's suffered any more wear and tear to the crockery. The men of Third Platoon looked to him for leadership, and to set a good example. He was, in fact, a father figure for these younger boys, and he took his position in that regard quite seriously.
Picking up his glass, he turned and leaned against the bar, watching approvingly as Nicholson dropped into a perfect Hwrang-do defensive stance, lightly touched a charging bullMarine, then stepped aside as the Marine hurtled past and collided noisily with a chair. MacKenzie had been worried about the platoon's morale, but as he thought about it, maybe what the boys needed most was a good fight. He winced as Holt, risen now from the bar-room floor like a fury from Hell, seized two leathernecks and slammed them together, head to head. Yeah, something to get the adrenaline flowing, something to remind them of how good it was to work together.
Fernandez and Garcia were back to back now, covering each other as they took on separate frontal assaults. Good... good! A Marine brought a chair down on Boomer, smashing him to the floor. Fernandez whirled, leaped, and brought the assailant down with a slashing kick to the face.
A Marine grabbed Doc Ellsworth in a bear hug. "Watch it, fella," Doc said. "I'm a non-combatant." Suddenly the Marine's face turned purple and he crumpled to the deck at Doc's feet, gasping for breath. Doc fastidiously brushed himself off, looked down at his writhing victim, and said, "If that pain persists or if you notice any blood in your urine, come see me during sick call tomorrow."
Holt slammed into the bar next to MacKenzie. "Damn it, Big Mac, ain't you gonna help?"
"I am helping," MacKenzie replied. He took a sip, then lowered his glass. "I'm not putting you all on report for fighting. Oh-oh, watch it there."
A few feet away a Marine grabbed Fernandez from behind and was trying to hit him with a bottle. Holt roared, the sound startling enough that the Marine dropped the bottle just as Holt lunged forward, tackling both men and driving them to the deck.
And suddenly, it was very, very quiet in Samelli's.
"Clear!" Boomer called, standing astride a limp Marine.
"Clear!" Holt said.
"Clear!"
"Clear!"
"Clear here!"
"And clear!" The other SEALs chimed in from various parts of the bar, and MacKenzie did a quick head count. Six SEALS, still on their feet. Counting him, seven. Twelve Marines down. Very down.
MacKenzie sighed, then reached down and turned the head of one unconscious Marine so he wouldn't drown in a puddle of spilled liquor on the deck. Straightening up again, he reached for the wallet in his hip pocket. "Awfully sorry for the mess, Pete," he said, handing a fifty and five tens across the counter to the owner. "That cover things?"
Samelli glanced around the room. The actual breakage wasn't bad. The men had been surprisingly restrained this time. Only the Marines had stooped to throwing furniture around.
"That'll be fine, Mac. Thanks. Better scoot, though. The boys called the SPs when it started getting rough."
"On our way. He gathered his SEALs with a glance. "C'mon, you heroes. E & E, on the double."
"Aw, Chief," Doc said. He was already back in his booth with his arms around the two girls. "I was just getting to the good part!"
"Move your ass, Doc. Unless you want to spend your liberty in the brig. Move it! Hop 'n' pop!"
"Prowl 'n' growl!"
"Shoot 'n' loot!"
It was more of a victorious saunter out of the bar than a retreat. They scrambled into the pair of cars they'd come in and roared back onto Virginia Creek Drive before the wailing sirens drew close.
The new lieutenant was supposed to show up tomorrow, MacKenzie thought as they raced east toward Little Creek. Maybe that was excuse enough to go ahead and make tonight a real celebration. In Lieutenant Cotter's memory, of course. Because it was one sure-fire definite affirmative that the new guy, whoever he was, would never be able to take the L-T's place. "C'mon, guys," he yelled over the roar of Doc's Chevy. They were in the lead. "Let's reconnoiter. Left at the light."
"Now you're talkin', Boss!" Roselli called from the back seat. "Hell, I thought you'd lost it for a minute there!"
The Chevy turned sharply, and Holt's car followed.