"My realistic side, Carol."
"Say what you want, but the Chinese occupation of Tibet is a tragedy. When the Tibetans named a seven-year-old boy as the reincarnation of the tenth Panchen Lama, the Chinese threw him into prison. He's still there. A little boy."
"Funny thing about that," said Welsh. "The Dalai Lama didn't smuggle the kid out of Tibet and then proclaim him the Panchen Lama. He proclaimed him the Lama first, practically daring the Chinese to put him in the bag. They did, and it was great propaganda. So don't think only the Chinese know how to be ruthless."
"That is too cynical even for you."
"Don't worry, if things get too rough, the kid can just hop back on the Wheel of Life and go for another rebirth."
"Rich," Carol warned.
"Hey," Welsh protested. "I'm sure that's the way the Dalai Lama looked at it."
"There are some things that shouldn't be joked about."
"Those are the things I can't help joking about."
The buzzing of the stove timer kept Welsh from any further sacrilege.
Between forkfuls Carol said, "Rich, this is delicious. Now don't get me wrong, but how did an ex-Marine become a good cook?"
"Former Marine, Carol. There are no ex-Marines."
"Okay, former Marine."
It was just the idea that anyone who became a Marine didn't have opposable thumbs. "Well, I like to eat, and I haven't been able to find a family of elves to come and cook my food for free."
Carol let that fly past without shooting at it. "Oh, by the way, Rebecca asked me if I could baby-sit for her this weekend. Of course I said yes. Her little girl is so adorable!"
Welsh had once witnessed an eight-man section of extremely pale and hairy British Royal Marine Commandos strip balls-ass naked and, like the Rockettes from Hell, perform the legendary Zulu Warrior dance. As a finale, they segued into the Elephant Walk, which can be visualized by anyone who has seen a group of circus elephants moving in single file, each trunk grasping the tail in front of it. Not a sight for the faint of heart or politically correct, and even the unshockable military audience was deeply impressed by the performance.
And Welsh would rather be forced to watch the lads pound out an encore with all his paternal aunts in attendance than spend any time at all, let alone an entire weekend, in close contact with the little yuppie monster in question. His first impulse was to smash his face down on the kitchen table to wipe off the deer-in-the-headlights look he knew was there. But he didn't do it fast enough.
"Okay," Carol said in a strained tone of voice. "I'll give you a call sometime next week."
"It's just this project I've been working on," Welsh said feebly. "I've got to become the duty expert on Guatemala before I go down there. And I still have to talk to some of the boys in the special operations community; I can only catch them on the weekend."
"That's okay, Rich. Your feelings on children are well known."
Welsh did feel that if you were ambivalent about children, then it probably wasn't the best idea to have any, at least until your feelings changed. But all honesty had gotten him was a reputation as some kind of mutant because, as everyone knew, every last idiot who came down the pike ought to become a parent. Which pretty well accounted for the state of the world, as far as he was concerned.
They did the dishes together, then finished off the bottle of wine. Later, on the way to the bedroom, Welsh said, "Do we have to leave the drapes open again?"
"You know I love to watch the stars."
"But I might get performance anxiety."
"Hasn't happened to you yet."
Welsh had nothing against exhibitionism, especially within the confines of a locked apartment. It was just that he'd lived in a high-rise dorm in college, and had once been introduced to a fellow resident with a powerful telescope and an encyclopedic knowledge of the sexual habits of everyone in a five-block radius. Thinking about it tended to affect his concentration. "Will you be sitting at your usual spot on the windowsill?"
"Probably."
Well aware of his matchless gift for unintentionally saying the wrong thing to women, Welsh shut up and dutifully followed Carol into the bedroom.
Chapter Four
"I've told this a story a thousand times," Corporal Costa said sullenly after Welsh introduced himself.
A Marine kicked a lawn mower into life just outside the window of the conference room at Marine Security Guard Battalion headquarters at Quantico, Virginia. Welsh moaned quietly and massaged his temples. He'd driven down from Washington the previous evening for Sunday dinner with his old friend The Bull, a Marine major and student at the Marine Corps Command and Staff College at Quantico.
When they finally ate dinner it was too late; the food never managed to catch up to all the beer.
Welsh regained consciousness at six in the morning, seriously disoriented, on The Bull's living room couch. There was just nothing like a good half hour's sleep. He opened his eyes to find The Bull's three-year-old son Larry staring at him from less than a foot away. The child obviously had little experience with such sights; his expression was the same as if he'd awakened to find an enormous garden slug snoozing on the family sofa. Imagining what he himself looked like, Welsh could sympathize.
Then The Bull's six-year-old daughter Jill joined them. "Hi, Rich," she said cheerfully. "Hi, Jill," Welsh croaked.
With brisk feminine efficiency, Jill grabbed Larry by the arm and dragged him off. "Leave Rich alone, Larry," she commanded. "He and Daddy tied one on last night."
From the mouths of babes, thought Welsh. He crawled to the bathroom. After a violent purging of the system, followed by a quick infusion of fluids and aspirins, his condition improved to the point where he only felt like shit. But he was capable of traveling.
"Man," The Bull informed him at the breakfast table, "you look like shit."
Welsh's vocal cords still weren't fully operational, but better now than before. "Thanks, Bull, I like my appearance to match my mood. It may be that I'm nearly blind, but I wouldn't say you were looking your best this morning either."
The major groaned. "It's going to be a great day at Command and Laughs. We've got a history seminar, and the instructor's already pissed off at me."
"What did you do this time?" Welsh demanded.
"Oh, the last seminar he was going on and on about the campaigns of Frederick the Great, how old Fred won fifteen and only lost two, or some such shit. All full of himself, the instructor asks: 'And what do you think about that, Major?' So I said: 'It's a hell of fine record, sir, but if he was coaching for Dallas he still would've gotten fired.'"
Welsh shook with laughter, then had to grab his head tightly to keep it from snapping off his neck.
The Bull joined in, men had a sudden attack of vertigo and nearly fell from his chair. "Next time be a pal and come for Saturday dinner. I could use the recovery time."
"You invited me," Welsh said accusingly. "Not like the good old days when we got back to the ship five minutes before curfew, is it, Bull?"
"They've got to be making the alcohol stronger," The Bull replied.
Joan, wife of The Bull, stood in the center of the kitchen shaking her head. "I've been watching this scene like Groundhog Day for over ten years now. You've both grown old and weak. Deal with it."
They looked at each other through red and bleary eyes, and laughed at what they saw. "She's right," Welsh said affectionately. He loved her like his own sister. "Joan, you've been a saint all these years. A saint."
"Don't I know it," she replied.
Welsh made it to MSG battalion headquarters just in time to cool his heels for an hour in a poorly ventilated conference room reeking of industrial cleanser. The last time he'd been there was as a student at the Infantry Officer Course. They'd landed by helicopter on the nearby athletic field and practiced the evacuation of an embassy. The two gunnery sergeant instructors who'd played State Department Officers had really gotten their rocks off on being called "sir" by a who
le platoon of second lieutenants. Welsh had been the platoon sergeant for that exercise. With all the exercise "civilian" role players either freaking out, pulling guns, or taking hostages, he remembered having to shoot more people than he processed for evacuation.
The Security Guard Battalion staff officers he encountered treated him with an obsequiousness usually reserved for generals. No one with ambitions to higher rank wanted any trouble with a member of the Senate Armed Services Committee. That was one of the nice things about working for a senator. Sometimes those magic powers were, transferable. Welsh used the long wait to fortify himself with a succession of cold drinks from a vending machine.
When Costa finally arrived, he was accompanied by a major who was going to be the command's watchdog for the interview. Welsh knew the game. Costa wouldn't say shit while the major was there; that was the whole idea. Welsh's head couldn't take a prolonged argument, so he suggested they walk down the hall to the colonel's office so he could call Senator Anderson. The major left.
Having cleared all those obstacles out of the way, Welsh was more than ready to get down to business with Costa. Unfortunately, the corporal had brought an attitude along with him.
Welsh had once prided himself on his ability to size up Marines; he'd been doing just that from the moment Costa walked through the door. The corporal was a short, pale, thin American youth of about twenty-two, with dark hair and civilian eyeglasses. His haircut was long, for a Marine, just on the fine edge of regulation. Costa also sported a sparse and wispy mustache. Nothing, Welsh thought, a little extra testosterone couldn't cure.
Welsh tried to find the right word to describe Costa's overall manner. Mild. Definitely mild. Welsh's experience was mainly with the infantry. Grunts had many different looks, ranging from piercing to no-one-at-home, but never mild. He pictured Costa as one of those who joined the Marine Corps to prove something to himself. A smart middle-class kid who tried to look and act tough, but didn't really pack the gear for it.
Welsh was sure Costa had been coached by any number of officers on what to tell, or not to tell, the Senator's aide. He'd save the important questions until he got some sense of the kid. "This won't take too long," he said reassuringly.
Costa gave him a cocky shrug.
"Okay," Welsh said. "Let's start off with your career field. What did you do for a living before you became a security guard?"
"2542."
That was cooperative. His hangover hadn't left him in the best of humors to begin with, but Welsh managed to keep an amiable smile on his face. "Exactly what is that in the communications field?" he asked calmly.
"Communications Center Operator," Costa informed him.
"Did you work on a staff?"
"Yeah."
What would have been a completely innocuous reply by a civilian was deliberately provocative coming from a Marine. In Marine Corps etiquette, "sir" and "ma'am" were mandatory when speaking to superiors and all civilians. And "yeah" instead of "yes" was not only inappropriate, but disrespectful.
Welsh could feel the muscles of his face tightening up. "Where?" he asked.
"Two MEF."
The 2nd Marine Expeditionary Force was the umbrella command for the 2nd Marine Division, 2nd Marine Aircraft Wing, and 2nd Force Service Support Group.
"The G-6?" Welsh asked. That was the communications-electronics section.
"Yeah."
In a way, Welsh was almost nostalgic; it reminded him of those days as a new second lieutenant when all the troops tried you out. The root of the problem was that kids like Costa started out working in big staffs, and got promoted solely because of their technical and administrative skills. Their staff NCOs, who ought to be providing leadership and discipline, were also technical weenies and couldn't lead the proverbial horse to water. The troops walked all over them. The officers were too senior and too busy.
Marines like Costa knew how they should behave, but like most American youth, would act like snot-nose little punks if allowed to get away with it. In Welsh's experience corporals, non-commissioned officers, simply did not pull that kind of shit.
He leaned forward and turned off his digital recorder. With both palms planted on the table he gave Costa the coldest, fiercest look he could summon up. He didn't yell; that would have made it too easy to take. "Okay, slick, now clean the fucking wax out of your ears and listen up."
Costa's eyebrows shot up into his hairline.
"I did not come down from Washington to listen to your bullshit," Welsh continued. "And I don't feel like hearing any more of it. In case someone didn't fill you in, you are here to answer my fucking questions. You will tell me whatever I want to fucking hear, as many times as I want to hear it. You will tell me the complete fucking truth, and include every fucking detail. You will use proper military courtesy and you will cease breaking my balls, or I will fucking dance all over yours. Now, do you understand me?"
Costa's mouth hung open a good inch and a half. His face had the bright, clear, totally amazed look of someone who had just accidentally stepped out of a plane at ten thousand feet without a parachute. Then, in an automatic reaction that would have warmed the depths of any drill instructor's icy heart, Costa snapped into the sitting version of attention, his upper body rigid, his eyes focused on the wall directly over Welsh's head. "Yes, sir!"
Welsh sat back in his chair. His face was expressionless, but inside he was smiling like a crocodile. It was nice to know he still had the touch. Now it was time to be firm but sympathetic; Costa had just needed to have the rules explained to him. "Good. We got off on the wrong foot because you decided not to act like a professional Marine NCO." He turned the recorder back on and softened his voice. "Now relax, take your time, and tell me exactly what happened that day in Guatemala City."
Corporal Costa told the story of his escape completely, without emotion, and without looking Welsh in the eye. When Costa finished, Welsh knew he'd heard everything.
They looked at each other in silence. Costa took out a handkerchief and spent a long time cleaning his glasses.
Welsh picked up his recorder and went out into the hall to give Costa a few minutes alone. When he came back in he brought the corporal a soda from the machine.
Costa seemed surprised by the gesture. He thanked Welsh, quickly drank half the can, and then made an abrupt statement. "You know, sir, they all blame me. For running away. Nobody says anything to my face, but I know they all talk about it."
Welsh nodded. It was the favorite indoor sport in the military, second-guessing some other poor bastard from the comfort of your office. The thought of all the hairy-chested assholes dumping on the poor kid because he hadn't taken on four machinegun-toting killers with a broken beer bottle made Welsh feel like crying. Despite what he'd thought earlier, Costa wasn't a turd. The kid put up the bluster because he couldn't deal with constantly having to describe what he thought was his own cowardice.
"Look," Welsh said gently. "I was a grunt. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. There was absolutely nothing you could have done, except die along with your friends. But you made it; it wasn't your time yet. You can either wallow in the guilt, or you can look at your life as a gift your friends gave to you. Concentrate on living it well. Don't pay attention to the opinions of people you wouldn't respect anyway."
Costa absorbed it very solemnly.
Welsh didn't know if he'd gotten through and didn't particularly care. "Tell me about Corporal Richardson."
As Welsh had calculated, Costa seemed pathetically grateful for the change in subject. He thought for a moment, as if trying to give an especially good answer. "Well, sir, I thought he was an okay guy. But you probably heard that everyone else thought he was a major pain in the ass. A lot of times he was really hard to get along with."
"How do you mean?" Welsh asked.
"Sir, he was really sensitive, you know? He couldn't take any criticism. I always used to wonder how he got through boot camp. If anybody gave him any shit, you know, just
the usual friendly harassment, he always looked like you killed his mother. He never gave it back like everyone else, he just clammed right up." Costa rattled on, as if he thought he wasn't describing it properly. "If he got the idea that somebody burned him on something—duty, whatever—he'd never have anything to do with them after that." Costa shook his head. "And in a small detachment, mat can be kind of rough."
"How did you become friendly with him?"
"Sir, he was a buddy, but we weren't that close, you know, like really best friends. He just latched onto me." Costa looked helplessly at Welsh, "I guess you know how it works, sir?"
Welsh nodded. "I sure do."
"I guess it's because I never gave him any shit, sir." Costa frowned. "I never liked to do that anyway, not the way some guys do. I don't know what else to tell you." He thought some more. "I definitely know he couldn't drink. That's one of the reasons nobody in the det really liked him."
"You mean he couldn't hold it?"
"Yes, sir. A few beers and Rich turned into a real asshole. That's the only time he'd give it back. He'd slam on everybody except me. Act like a real asshole. And in the morning, everyone he ran into the night before would be pissed off, and Rich wouldn't remember a thing. That really got old after a while. We'd go someplace, and he'd get fired up and want to fight everyone, you know? I'd have to threaten to bail out on him to get him to calm down."
"Somebody told me once that your real personality comes out when you're drunk," said Welsh.
Costa grinned. "Then I guess he really was an asshole."
They laughed together, too long and loud for the thin humor, but it drained off some of the tension.
Then some instinct told Welsh to ask a question. "Was Richardson friendly with anyone else down there? I mean not in the Marine detachment."
Costa didn't say anything, but he looked very uncomfortable.
Welsh knew he'd have to be very careful. "I need to know what happened. If it's something that's not on the record, maybe you should get it documented now, for your own protection. Nobody's going to get hurt from this," he added, hoping it was true. He hit the pause button on his recorder, and made sure Costa saw him do it. "Remember, I haven't advised you of your rights under Article 31 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, so nothing you say to me is admissible in a court-martial." Welsh wanted information. Hanging people was someone else's job.
William Christie 02 - Mercy Mission Page 3
