“Yes, Corporal, sir,” Crowe barked, ironic and snide, pretending to be the shavetail gung-ho lifer he would never even resemble.
“We love our Corps, don’t we, Crowe?”
“We love our Corps, Corporal.”
“Good man, Crowe,” he said.
“Donny?”
It was the driver, looking back.
“Some Navy guys here.”
Shit, thought Donny.
“Donny, are you joining the Navy?” Crowe asked. “You could make a fortune giving jelly rolls in the showers of a nuclear sub. You could—”
Everybody laughed. Give it to Crowe, he was funny.
“All right, Crowe,” said Donny, “I just may put you on report for the fun of it or kick the shit out of you to save the paperwork. While I talk to these guys, you give every man on the team a blow job. That’s an order, PFC.”
“Yes, Corporal, sir,” said Crowe, taking a puff on his cigarette.
Donny buttoned his tunic, pulled on his cover low over his eyes and stepped outside.
It was Weber, in khakis.
“Good morning, sir,” said Donny, saluting.
“Good morning, Corporal,” said Weber. “Would you come over here, please?”
“Yes, sir,” said Donny.
As they got out of earshot of the men in the bus, Donny said, “Man, what the fuck is this all about? I thought I was supposed to be undercover. This really blows it.”
“All right, Fenn, don’t get excited. Tell them we’re from personnel at the Pentagon, verifying your RSVN service preparatory to separation. Very common occurrence, no big deal.”
Down the way, in the rear of a tan government Ford, Lieutenant Commander Bonson sat behind sunglasses, peering ahead.
Donny got in; the engine was running and air-conditioned chill blasted over him.
“Good morning, Fenn,” said the commander. He was a tight-assed, scrawny lifer in the backseat, sitting ramrod perfect.
“Sir.”
“Fenn, I’m going to arrest Crowe today.”
Donny sucked a gulp of dry, painful air.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“At 1600 hours, I’ll show up at the barracks with a plainclothes detachment of NIS. We’ll incarcerate him at the Navy Yard brig.”
“On what charge?”
“Security violation. Naval Penal Code DOD 69-455. Unauthorized possession of classified information. Also, DOD 77-56B, unauthorized transmission or transference of classified information.”
“Ah — on what basis?”
“Your basis, Fenn.”
“My basis, sir?”
“Your basis.”
“But I haven’t reported anything. He went to a couple of parties where they were flying the NVA flag. Half the apartments in Washington are hanging the NVA flag. I see it everywhere.”
“You can place him in the presence of a known radical organizer.”
“Well, I can place myself in that same guy’s presence. And I have no information to suggest he was compromising Marine security or intelligence. I just saw him talking with a guy, that’s all.”
“You can place him in the presence of Trig Carter. Do you know yet who Trig Carter is?”
“Ah, well, sir, you said—”
“Tell him, Weber.”
“This is straight from this morning’s MDW-Secret Service-FBI briefing, Fenn,” said Weber. “Carter is now suspected of being a member of the Weather Underground. He’s not ‘merely’ a peacenik with a placard and some flowers in his hair, but he’s an extreme radical who may be linked to the Weather Underground’s bombing campaign.”
Bonny was dumbstruck.
“Trig?”
“Don’t you see it yet, Corporal?” said Bonson. “These two bright boys are hatching up something good and bloody for May Day. We have to stop them. If I collar Crowe, maybe that’ll be enough to save some lives.”
“Sir, I saw nothing that would—”
“Then get with the fucking program, Corporal!” Bonson bellowed. He leaned forward, fixing Donny with his murderous glare. He seemed to bear a grudge against the known world and was holding Donny responsible for all his disappointments, for all the women who wouldn’t sleep with him, for the fraternities that wouldn’t pledge him, for the schools that wouldn’t accept him.
“You think this is some kind of joke, don’t you, Corporal? It’s beneath you somehow. So you’ll go along to stay out of ’Nam, and just play it cool and cute and rely on your good looks and your charm to drift through? You won’t get your hands dirty, you won’t do the job. Well, that stops today. You have a job. You have a legal order assigned by higher headquarters and passed down through a legal chain of command, vetted by your commanding officer. You will perform. Now, you stop screwing around and pretending like your feelings matter. You get on this thing and you get inside and you get me what I need, or by God, I will see to it that you’re the only U.S. Marine on the DMZ when Uncle Ho sends his tanks south to mop up. We’ll get you a Springfield rifle and a campaign hat and see how well you do. Are you reading me?”
“Loud and clear,” said Donny.
“Go do your fucking job,” said Bonson icily. “I’ll hold off a day, maybe two. But get inside before May Day or I’ll sweep them all up and off to Portsmouth and you to the ’Nam. Do you copy?”
“I copy, sir,” said Donny, blushing at the dressing down.
“Out,” said Bonson, signifying the interview was over.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Donny said.
“You look not-cool.”
“I’m cool.”
“Well, a bunch of us were going over to this party in G-town, Donny. I found out about it from Trig.”
Oh Christ, Donny thought, as the solicitous Crowe loomed over him in the upstairs barracks room where the off-base men kept their huge gray lockers and were now stripping down after a hot afternoon in the boneyard.
“Crowe, you know we may be on alert at any time. Is your riot gear outstanding? What about steaming and pressing your tunic, washing out your dark socks, and spending an hour or two on that spit shine, which has begun to look a little dim. That’s what you ought to be doing.”
“Yeah, well,” said Crowe, “believe me on this one, I know. We’re not going on alert till 2400 tomorrow night.”
Donny almost pointed out that if you said “2400” you didn’t have to say “night,” but Crowe wasn’t stoppable at that point.
“And we’ll just hang around here. We may get on trucks and, probably on Saturday, we’ll deploy to a building near the White House. But it’ll be a short deployment. All the action’s going on across the river. The whole point of this one is to converge on the Pentagon and close it down. Trig told me.”
“Trig told you? He told you about the deployment? Man, that’s classified. Why the hell would he know?”
“Don’t ask me. Trig knows everything. He has entrée everywhere. He probably is having cocktails with J. Edgar himself right as we speak. By the way, did you know Hoover was a fruit? He’s a goddamn fruit! He hangs out in Y’s and shit.”
“Crowe, you’re not telling Trig shit, are you? I mean, it might seem like a joke to you, but you could get into deep, serious green crap that way.”
“Man, what do I know? Little Eddie Crowe’s just a grunt. He knows nothing.”
“Crowe, I’m not kidding.”
“Is someone asking about me?”
“So where’s this party?”
“Shouldn’t you be trying to find your girl? She didn’t look too happy when you bailed out on her last night to hang out with us. And if I know my horny hippie peace freaks, that bearded guy hanging on her shirttails has a serious case of the please-fuck-mes. You may have to call in a fire mission on him. Hotel Echo.”