Chapter 20
Tuesday Evening, US Embassy, New Delhi
PFC Ramon was pissed, plain and simple. She flounced to an empty desk and began to field strip her M18. Well, even if she couldn’t shoot it very well, her weapon would be clean.
Everyone treated her with kid gloves, like she wasn’t a real Marine. Gunny did it. The other Marines did it. She realized that she wasn’t very strong and wasn’t very tough, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t take her fair share of the load. Gunny wouldn’t let her go get Cpl Crocker, and now he wouldn’t even let her stand a simple watch. It just wasn’t fair.
Ivy Ramon was born in East LA, the youngest of five children and the only girl. Her actual name was Haydee, but no one ever used that. As a toddler, she had a habit of holding tightly to her dad’s leg, and he would even walk around the house with her clinging to his calf, sitting on his foot with her little legs wrapped around it. He would lift his leg for each step with exaggerated height and care, and she would shriek with laughter. He started calling her “Ivy,” and the name stuck. Most people didn’t even know her given name.
Her father had been a big jock in his day and had even played Double A ball before getting Ivy’s mother pregnant with Arturo, her oldest brother. He quit playing ball, married her, and got a job in a local produce warehouse, but sports remained his passion. All four of Ivy’s brothers were quite athletic, and both Arturo and Jorge, her number three brother, had received football scholarships to USC, and Jorge was now on the Seattle Seahawks practice squad (something she never told any of her fellow Marines).
Ivy, on the other hand, was not a jock, by any stretch of the imagination. Oh, she tried. As a small girl, she used to follow her brothers out to the vacant lots where they played ball and tried to get them to let her play. One of her undying memories was when she convinced Jorge to throw her a football. Her six-year-old hands could not close on the ball to catch it, and it hit her in the face. She broke out in tears and ran home, the boys’ laughter chasing her. When she got home, her father pulled her in his lap and laughed, telling her that she was a girl. All she had to do was be pretty. She should not be trying to be a boy.
Later, she tried track and field, she tried softball. She couldn’t make either high school team. Her mother had suggested that she do a nice “girls’” activity like cheerleading, so for three weeks she practiced that with abandon only to not make even the first cut at tryouts.
Ivy saw how much her father loved sports, and she felt this was the only way to get his approval. And not to get it gnawed at her.
But despite this, Ivy was a happy girl. Growing up, she loved her dolls and could spend hours upon hours dressing them up and playing make-believe. Her mother gave her a fashion cutout book, and she lost herself in it, imagining herself as a fashion diva. She pranced up and down her bed-turned catwalk. She loved ribbons and Barbie and Prancing Pony and all things little girl.
Ivy was a short girl with a slightly chunky body. Then, after her twelfth birthday, she started developing. Not in height, but in her chest. Her breasts started to swell, and they didn’t seem to want to stop. She started to get noticed, and at first, she enjoyed the attention. But as her breasts got bigger and bigger, some of the attention started taking a nasty turn, so Ivy pulled away from people and spent more time at home.
Her mother kept telling her that this was a normal part of growing up, and she should use them for any advantage she could. Ivy’s mother was also short and had rather large breasts. But she was also quite fat, and Ivy feared that she was going to follow her in that way, too. She put a mirror up in her room and daily stood in front of it naked, examining her body for any change. She thought her hips were getting too big, her belly too pronounced.
She thought about breast reduction surgery. It was not so much that she really thought they were too large, but rather that she did not like the suit-of-armor bras she had to wear to support them. She thought the frilly, lacey things she saw in the fashion magazines were so pretty, but it seemed they didn’t make them in industrial sizes.
She often confided in Victor, a gay boy in class who was her sometimes confidant. When she expressed concern on her growing width, he told her that his brother, in a desperate and concerned “man-to-man, see-you-are-not-really-gay” talk, had told him a woman’s body was fine if in the noon sun, her stomach was in the shadow of her tits. Ivy laughed out loud at this and took this as her personal boundary. As long as her belly was in the shadow, and it looked like it would be in the shadow for a quite some time yet, she was OK.
Ivy never really had a steady boyfriend. She played with Victor, teaching each other how to kiss, and she went to her junior and senior prom, but there was nothing too serious. Truth be told, her opinion of men was somewhat shaped by the men in her life. Her father and brothers were fit, well-muscled men, rather masculine, and rather appealing. None of the boys in high school fit that mold, so she never really felt a pull toward any of them.
After graduating from high school, her parents expected her to settle down and start producing grandkids to add to their growing count. But Ivy still wanted to do something more, to achieve something. When her friend Teresa needed to get a marriage license, she went down with her to the county building. Waiting on the bench, she looked up at a poster for the Marines. On it was a handsome black Marine, broad-shouldered and obviously fit. In other words, he was the kind of man who appealed to her sense of what a man was supposed to be.
She snuck off to the recruiting office where a Marine told her about the adventure of the Corps, all the while trying not to stare at her breasts pushing out against her designer t-shirt. Ivy listened and wondered if she could succeed in this man’s game or not. She promised to bring her school records back, thought about it overnight, then came back on the next day when she signed on the dotted line.
Her mother cried when she left for boot camp, but her father gave her a crushing hug and told her how proud he was. As he let her go, Ivy could see a tear rolling down his face.
It was that tear that kept Ivy going in boot. As soon as she arrived, she thought she had made a huge mistake. The yelling, the shapeless cammies, the lack of proper skin care, the food. One DI, Sgt Contreras (known as the “Dragon Queen” to the other recruits) seemed to particularly take pleasure in tormenting her. Ivy, as in her attempts at sports, did not excel, and Sgt Contreras took great delight in pointing out all her faults, putting her through “extra instruction.” Three times Ivy was called before a review board, the third time before the company commander. But each time, she squeaked through, the image of her father’s tear pushing her forward.
The company commander seemed to take a personal interest in her progress. Ivy did not know exactly why, but she was willing to grab at any lifeline. And somehow, by some miracle, she made past all the obstacles thrown in her path. The O-course, the PFT, Range Week, all the hours of EI, even Mount Motherfucker. She defeated them all and graduated. Last in her class, to be sure, but she graduated.
She was amazed that before the graduation parade, the Dragon Queen came up and hugged her. Yes, physically hugged her. And said, “I knew you could make it màna, I knew you would.” Ivy was flat-out astounded.
But more important than Sgt Contreras’ opinion was that of her family. Her parents and all four of her brothers (and two of their families) flew to Quantico to see her graduate. This was the proudest moment in her life. She had made her father proud.
She went through the rest of her training without too much problem. She was certainly glad that she could wear regular clothes when not on duty, she could read Seventeen, and she was allowed to wear at least a little make-up again.
And when she reported for duty in New Delhi, she was surprised to see that the Marine on the poster, the one she saw in LA, was there, SSgt Child. He still was a pretty hot piece of man-meat, one who Ivy could really appreciate, but he was a Marine, and to Ivy, that now meant family. She didn’t date her brothers.
She had c
aught MAJ Defilice checking her out, and during the day, they had spent time talking. He wasn’t such a bad piece of man-meat himself, and she thought he was rather interesting. A bad boy with a heart. He was Army, so he wasn’t a brother, was he now? But he was an officer. She would have to think about that.
Oh, she knew her fellow Marines looked at her and some were interested. She chuckled as she thought of tough SSgt Child not knowing where to look at the inspection early that morning (was in only this morning?), then she looked up guiltily at his prone body on the desk. Tears welled in her eyes.
She may not be the strongest or toughest Marine here, but she was going to give out some payback. Gunny Mac or not, she was going to whup some ass.
Chapter 21
Tuesday Evening, US Embassy, New Delhi
High in the bell tower, Sgt Niimoto watched the procession of diplomats climb over the fence. He kept his rifle at the ready, scanning the crowd, not having orders to fire, but knowing he would if the diplomats got in trouble.
Hungry and thirsty, he wished he had thought to bring some food with him. He had talked with Little Mac on the landline, and he knew the tunnels were secure now. So he was just going to have cope. He had gone through an extremely uncomfortable period when he thought his bladder was going to burst, so he had finally sidled over to the far side of the cupola and peed right there on the floor against the bulkhead. He had considered peeing over the side, but that might draw attention to him, so he was just putting up with the stench, even if it had since faded in the Indian heat. He was somewhat perversely fascinated with the ever-growing Rorschach-stain his urine made on the plaster of the wall of the tower. He wondered how much more the plaster was going to wick up the urine, and how much larger the stain would get. Oh well, thank God for small miracles that he hadn’t had to take a crap yet.
Concerned about exposing his head and rifle barrel over the edge of the railing, he had taken out the cleaning rod for his rifle and tried to push it through the side of the wall. But once the plaster was removed, the wall proved to be some very heavy gauge steel or something that he didn’t recognize. He couldn’t even scratch it. Whatever this tower really was, that was more evidence that it wasn’t a bell tower. Niimoto couldn’t even guess as to what needed this kind of construction.
In the growing darkness, he felt more secure in peering over the wall and down to the antline of diplomats climbing over the ladders and down the other side. The Indian soldiers had a nice cordon going on the other side and up to the waiting buses, but the mob, while looking on with evident interest, did not seem to be agitated or trying to get at the diplomats. So Niimoto just watched, ready to take action if needed.
As the line finally started to peter out, Niimoto saw SSgt Harwood approach the ladder and hurry up. Once at the top of the wall, he turned and gave a salute back to the embassy. Niimoto started to laughed out loud before choking it off.
“Get some, Harwood!” he whispered.
SSgt Harwood climbed down the other side and sauntered over to a waiting bus, not even glancing at the mob. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. He got onboard and an Indian soldier pounded on the side of the bus. The driver closed the door, and the bus pulled slowly out and disappeared down the road. The mob slowly closed in on the space left by the bus until it was packed up against the embassy wall again. They seemed strangely subdued now somehow, without the chanting and gesturing that had been so evident before. Some soldiers climbed back into the compound and took positions along the wall, facing in toward the embassy building.
Still wishing he had something to drink, Sgt Niimoto settled back to watch. Just what he expected to see, he really didn’t know.
Chapter 22
Tuesday Afternoon, The White House, Washington, DC
Vice-President Wright looked over her desk at the two men sitting there. She had briefly thought about taking over the Oval Office, but she knew that was pretty crass, and she was an astute politician, if nothing else.
David waited expectantly, and the vice-president could see him trying to maintain professionalism when excitement was trying to take over. General Litz was different, with a look of apprehension as he sat on the front third of his seat, back straight, hands in his lap.
The vice-president considered him. She had known the general for years as he climbed the general officer hierarchy. While not a close friend, her stand on military issues certainly put them in the same camp. He was known to be an efficient administrator with a prickly demeanor, and he was very concerned on how others perceived him. She decided the personal approach was the right choice here. David had given her the general’s pilot nickname of “Coptic,” but at the last second, she thought that would sound too patronizing.
“Hank, thank you for coming here. I wanted to talk to you privately to get a better feel for what’s going on. Secretary Pitt is dedicated, but he can be a big distraction at a time like this.”
The general’s almost imperceptible easing of his back and the slight slide back into his seat confirmed her guess that this was the way to go.
“What is the situation now? Where do we stand?” she asked him.
The general cleared his throat. “Well, ma’am, as I briefed before, we have the Reagan Battle Group heading out from Thailand. There has been a slight delay as the Reagan is undergoing some repairs while underway, but it should be back up to full speed in about ten hours or so, and it should be off the coast of India by Thursday afternoon local. The Honolulu, though, a missile sub in the group, should be off the coast near Calcutta Wednesday night.”
“Can the carrier really do anything about the situation?”
“No ma’am. Not really. It’ll be there to show the flag. That’s about it. Or, if the president is released, it can serve as a receiving station. We also have various air assets arriving at Diego Garcia, and the Quick Reaction Brigade is still on alert in Korea. But once again, ma’am, we can bomb the hell out of New Delhi, pardon my French, but I’m not sure we can go in and secure the embassy safely and without collateral damage.” He paused. “Do you want us to transport the Quick Reaction Brigade? We are just waiting for your OK on that.”
She caught David’s upraised eyebrows and short shake of his head. David was valuable to her, but goodness, he could be such a pain. She didn’t need him to remind her of what was her own decision in the first place.
“Hank, don’t move them. The situation is precarious in India now. Pitt is right about that, and moving the brigade might provoke the mob into rash action” (as if attacking the embassy wasn’t already rash enough, she thought). “Keep the Reagan moving, but I want no action taken at all, none, that can be taken as offensive action. Keep everyone else out of the region. Understood?”
“Yes ma’am. Understood.”
The vice-president smiled as she stood up and came around the desk, offering her hand. “I appreciate your efforts, Hank. I’m glad you are chairman during this crisis. We’ll get through it.”
“Thank you ma’am for your confidence. We’re going to do our best.”
The vice-president almost burst out laughing while he came to attention, saluted, then did a smart about face and strode out of the office. Once the door closed, she waited a second, then turned to look at David and did laugh.
“What a character!” she said, shaking her head. “Well, I think that went well.”
“Yes ma’am. Great job playing both sides. Not sending the brigade will appease Pitt and be taken as judicious restraint. Sending the Reagan will show resolve and strength. And since the Reagan can’t really do anything, we’ll just let things . . .”
She quickly raised her hand stopping him. Some things were better left unsaid, even among the closest of confidants. Nixon had paid the price for not following that rule.
He looked awkwardly about for a second before pulling himself together. “Are you ready for Pitt now?”
“No, give me a few minutes. Then send him in.”
He nodded and l
eft. It had been a long night and morning, and the afternoon offered no relief. She walked back over to her desk and sat down, looking out the window through the leafy trees to the White House. Would that be her new address in the very near future?
Chapter 23
Late Tuesday Night, US Embassy, New Delhi
Gunny Mac woke with a start, wondering what he was doing and what he should be doing with a sense of panic until his brain came online. He looked around the room. The president was asleep on one couch. Major Defilice and the off-watch Marines were asleep either in chairs or on the floor. LCpl Saad was alert, watching SSgt Childs and LCpl Wynn. He had the PDA in front of him, which had been turned off to save power. A schedule had been made for it to be powered up and contact established. He nodded to Gunny.
It was fairly dark in the room with only the emergency lights on. These battery powered lights did well enough in enabling people to move back and forth and get along with what had to be done, but they weren’t the same as regular lighting. When the power was cut off an hour after the diplomats from the consulate were evacuated, there had been a momentary panic setting in until the emergency lights kicked on. Now, at least they had some lighting.
Gunny Mac slowly got up and stretched. It seems a little surreal to be in the darkened room with people sleeping, considering the situation. He felt they should be doing something, but intellectually, he knew there wasn’t much to do at the moment, and keeping everyone awake would only hinder their effectiveness later.
He only noticed then that Loralee Howard wasn’t in the room. Maybe she had gone to the head, he thought. He got to his feet and walked out the door to go down to Post 1, but as he turned the corner into the passage, he almost stumbled on Loralee, sitting huddled on the floor, back against the bulkhead.
The Return of the Marines Trilogy Page 12
