The Gulf

by David Poyer

  But now his voice wasn’t angry. It was tired. And there was no hint of reproach anymore. “You know something, Miss Titus? I know Lenson, too. And Shaker. And a lot of other men on that ship and Adams. But I’ve got to send them, anyway.

  “So you got us this deal, is that it? Thanks. For doing your job. But welcome to the real world. It’s not all equations and budgets, is it? Now somebody’s got to point at a man and tell him, Go out there, and be ready to die.

  “I’m disappointed, Blair. It’s kind of sad. I was starting to respect you.”

  She stood alone in the empty room, wanting to cry or scream but unable to do either. She felt as if part of her had died. Hart’s last words echoed like a knell. Starting to respect you.

  Till now, she’d thought of herself as a professional. Focused on the quantifiable, on the facts. Emotion prejudiced analysis. Therefore, it had no place in her business, which was truth and efficiency; no place in her career—the most important thing in her life.

  Hold lightly, Blair. It’s over in a heartbeat.…

  And now she’d given way to it. In the worst, most degrading way.

  Then something inside her heart said, horrified, Isn’t it natural to protect those you love?

  She shuddered. What was she doing? Where was she going from here?

  She didn’t know. But she couldn’t think about it now. Someone was calling her from outside. Saunders. He sounded angry.

  She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and went out.

  30

  U.S.S. Turner Van Zandt

  SHAKING and with pounding heart, not with fear but with the insulted rage of innocence accused, Phelan stood at attention outside the executive officer’s stateroom. Across from him, Chief Nolan leaned against a bulkhead. The humming air was cold. Colder, he thought with furious hatred, than it ever got where the enlisted lived.

  He sniffled, and Nolan’s eyes flicked. “Straighten up, you worthless piece of shit,” he rasped.

  He raised his shoulders a quarter-inch, then let them slump back. Fuck him. The chief master-at-arms. Big deal.

  But no matter what he told himself, no matter how he sneered inside at the fat chief and all he represented, he couldn’t stop trembling.

  It had occurred to him more than once in the hour he’d been standing here that this time he was in real trouble.

  He hadn’t expected Nolan that early. Sick call wasn’t till after quarters, and sick bay was off limits till then. After all, it was a medical space. People weren’t supposed to just barge in. So when the door eased open and the fat face stuck itself in, he’d frozen, too deep in the rush to move or speak. The chief, glancing around absently, had asked him something—something about Fitch—and then, suddenly, seen what he was doing. Seen his arm palm up on the blotter, the paper and foil scattered, the little specimen cup.

  And the needle.

  Not that it was a big deal. It wasn’t as if he was mainlining, like an addict. He’d just been skin-popping. It was just to be able to do his job; he wasn’t worth a shit in the morning these days. But he’d realized then, in that moment of simultaneous euphoria and horror, that he’d forgotten to lock the door.

  “Come to attention, Phelan,” rasped Nolan again. Bernard gave him a go-to-hell sneer. If he wanted him at attention, he could fuck a duck.

  Boots rattled on the ladder. It was khaki, the XO. He looked tense already. Phelan came to a boot-camp attention, shoulders back, thumbs along the seams of his dungaree trou.

  Dan blinked at the waiting CMAA, the mustached, swarthy man beside him. Remembered, and suppressed a sigh. “This him, Chief?”

  “Yessir. Seaman Phelan.”

  “Hospitalman Phelan, sir,” the little man barked.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting. There’s a lot”—Dan paused—“a lot going on today.”

  “That’s all right, sir. Waiting won’t hurt this guy none. Give him time to get it out of his system.”

  Dan wondered what Nolan meant. Then thought, That’s what we’re here to find out. He slid past them, leaving the door open. The chief flicked his eyes for Phelan to follow.

  Inside, Bernard glanced around enviously. Private desk, sofa, books. A porthole, pictures on the bulkheads. A lot nicer than a two-by-six bunk, with people playing cards all night, slamming doors, farting in your face as you lay in your rack. The only trouble was that the overhead lights were too bright. He thought of asking the XO to turn them off. No, that wouldn’t be smart.

  Lenson stood in front of the porthole for a moment, blinking into the morning. He was remembering how Sturgis had looked when it became evident there was no way of telling which version of events to believe, his or Shaker’s. The agent was still pursuing the investigation, broadening it now to the rest of the officers and crew.

  Phelan, watching him with the attention a rabbit gives a hawk, saw the XO hadn’t shaved yet. He thought angrily: We got to, though. Take your fucking time, us peons got nothing better to do than wait on you.

  Dan turned. “Where’s the Doc?”

  “I guess down below, sir.”

  “This man works for him. I want him here before we start.”

  “Aye, sir. Use your phone?”

  Lenson nodded. Nolan spoke briefly on the bogen, then hung up. “He’s on his way, sir.”

  “Lieutenant Wise; captain’s cabin,” announced the 1MC. Dan turned the speaker down, then sat and took a message out of a basket. He looked at it, massaging above his eyes with thumb and forefinger. He wondered what Pensker had told them. Would he back Shaker up? Or would he figure it was time to come clean?

  Phelan watched him, seething. Go ahead, ignore us, he thought. We’re just dirt to you. Army, Navy, the officers were all the same.

  He stayed braced, though. It seemed like the smart thing to do.

  Fitch came in a few minutes later. “Shut the door, Doc,” said Lenson, sliding the message out of sight and leaning forward.

  “Uncover,” barked Nolan. “Two.”

  Dan began, the words routine: “Hospitalman Phelan, this is XO’s investigation. It’s carried out to see if there’s evidence to warrant writing up a formal charge. No punishment will be awarded here. However, the same rules for your protection apply as at captain’s mast. You have the right to remain silent and to make no statement. You have the right to call witnesses to your defense. Do you understand everything I’ve said?”

  “Yessir,” Phelan snapped.

  “Chief, what do we have here?”

  Nolan cleared his throat. “Well, sir, like I said on the bridge, at approximately oh-six-forty-five I was coming back from the fantail. I stopped at sick bay to see if Doc was in. Wanted to ask him if he could retest my body-fat percentage. I’ve lost ten pounds since my last physical.”

  He paused, then resumed his official voice. “Petty Officer Fitch was not in sick bay. Hospitalman Phelan was. I observed that the safe was open, that there was drugs out in front of him, along with other paraphernalia, and that he had a needle in his arm. He looked spaced out and didn’t answer at first when I spoke to him. I asked him what he thought he was doing.

  “He said he was giving himself a vitamin shot. That didn’t sound right, so I took charge of the syringe and the drugs and the candy, everything that was on the desk, and called the Doc. When he got there, I turned subject man over to his custody and went to notify you.”

  Dan nodded. He didn’t think about what he’d just heard. He remembered it, but he hadn’t thought yet. It was only one side of the story. “Okay. Doc?”

  Fitch nodded solemnly. He looked grave and important, regretful and vindicated all at the same time. The prick, Phelan thought, this is just another chance for him to suck off an officer.… “Yessir. When the Chief got me down there, I first made the observation that the controlled-substances safe had been opened. I then—”

  “Let’s have the short version,” Lenson interrupted. “What was he doing?”

  “Injecting himself with morphine. Near as I can
tell. I think what he did was open one of the blocks, dissolve it in water, heat it, then do a subcutaneous injection.”

  “Morphine? Medical morphine, from the emergency stock?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s right.”

  Dan felt sick. He took his cap off and set it to one side. Then, for the first time, he looked up. Phelan kept his eyes straight ahead.

  “Okay, what have you got to say?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “What do you mean, nothing? This is serious, Phelan.”

  “Yes, sir, I know it is.” He’d been thinking all this time about what he was going to say. The bit about the vitamins had almost gone down with Nolan; he’d seen the doubt in his eyes. With Fitch here, though, that might not work. At last he said, “Sir, I don’t know how this goes. I never was up to one of these before. Don’t I get a lawyer or something?”

  Dan stared up at him, trying to catch the eyes, but they slid around his like oiled marbles. “This is the first time you’ve ever been at mast?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Never went to mast on the—what was it, the cruiser you missed movement on—”

  “Long Beach, sir. No, sir.”

  “We still don’t have your records, do we?”

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “Well, about a lawyer: This isn’t an official mast yet. As I said. Now, if you want to talk lawyers, we can find out if there’s one attached to the staff here. Only it won’t be a mast then, it’ll be a court-martial. Got that?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Now tell me what you were doing in sick bay with a needle in your arm.”

  The stall had only bought him a minute, and he decided now to stick with what he already half-believed was the truth. “It was a vitamin shot. Like I told the chief. He’s got it in for me; he’s been hassling me since I got aboard. But that’s what it was, that’s the truth.”

  “Doc?”

  “We don’t give vitamins that way, sir. If they need ’em that bad, they’re already in a shoreside hospital.”

  “The morphine was out of the safe. Is there any reason it should have been out?”

  “No sir, I do the inventories. There was no reason one of those blocks should be open unless you’re using it.”

  Dan said, “Right. Now, did I hear somebody mention candy? Does that have anything to do with this?”

  “I think it might, sir,” said Fitch. “That caramel they sell in the ship’s store kind of looks like morphine. I figure he was going to mold some to the same shape, then wrap it up again somehow and replace it.”

  Dan closed his eyes. The emergency supplies … meant for burned men, major casualties … “Is there any way we can tell how long he’s been doing this?”

  “I’ll have to check our whole stock, sir. Unwrap it and test it.”

  “What about the rest of the drugs?”

  “I checked the pharmaceutical log against the stock log.” Fitch looked at Phelan. “And I looked back at the prescription records. I haven’t got numbers yet, but we’re down in stimulants, analgesics, tranquilizers, too. It’s covered as far as the log goes, but there’s been more opiates and sedatives given out this week than I issue in a year.”

  “I thought you needed the CO’s signature to dispense those.”

  “We do, sir. There’s a signature on the forms that sort of looks like Captain Bell’s.”

  “Captain Bell’s?”

  “Yessir. Those were the last prescriptions we did before Phelan came aboard. I figure he just traced them without realizing or thinking that we changed COs.”

  “Prescribing to whom? To himself?”

  “No sir,” said Fitch.

  Dan fiddled with a pencil. At last, softly, he said, “Vitamins, Phelan?”

  Phelan met the gray eyes straight on. “Yes, sir,” he said sincerely. “I’ve had the flu or something since Karachi. I thought vitamin C might help. We didn’t have any liquid, so I crushed some tablets up. The other stuff Petty Officer Fitch is talking about, those people were hurting, and I gave them what you’re supposed to give them. I don’t know nothing about any signature. That’s all.” He shrugged.

  “Why was the morphine out?”

  “I don’t know, sir. It was laying there on the desk like that when I got to sick bay.”

  Lenson sighed. “And the caramel?”

  “I like caramel, sir.”

  “Phelan, why are you doing this to yourself?”

  “I’m not doing nothing, sir. You want the truth, I think maybe somebody was trying to trap me. Leaving it out like that.”

  “Sir?” said Fitch.

  “Yeah, Doc.”

  “Chief tell you, I searched his locker?”

  Phelan turned, forgetting his brace, suddenly outraged. “You little—hey! You got no right to do that. That’s my fucking locker, man, I got rights—”

  “Pipe down, sailor! You’re at attention!” shouted Nolan.

  “Shut up,” said Lenson coldly to both of them. “What about the locker?”

  Bernard stared down, trembling with anger, as Fitch laid out the tobacco pouch, followed by two pill bottles and half a pack of Marlboros. Lenson looked at them. He opened the pouch and sniffed it.

  Nolan and Fitch leaned over the desktop, and Phelan, looking at the backs of their heads, thought for a moment of laying them out with the paper punch, closing the door softly behind him, crossing the quarterdeck, walking up the pier, and disappearing into the desert.

  But he didn’t.

  “It’s pot, all right,” said Nolan. The leading corpsman nodded, too.

  Dan pushed a bottle toward Fitch with the tips of his fingers. “You recognize these?”

  “Navy stock, sir. Demerol and Catapres.”

  “What are those?”

  “Demerol’s a morphine derivative. Catapres, that’s clonidine. It’s a blood-pressure medication.”

  “Blood pressure?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Is it something you get high with?”

  “Not that I know of, sir. It’s used in drug-treatment programs, though. To help them through withdrawal.”

  Lenson looked at the drugs. Finally, he said, still looking down, “Okay, Mr. Phelan, anything else?”

  Bernard felt his lip trembling, so he sneered. “You got it all wrapped up, don’t you? You don’t give a shit about me. Why should I say anything?”

  “Because I’d like to hear it.” Dan paused. “The blood-pressure drug. You must have been trying to quit. Am I right?”

  Phelan looked at the deck.

  Dan sighed. He pushed the pills around on the desk. “You tried to stop. But you’re taking more and more. You tried to stay out of the morphine, didn’t you? You’re a corpsman, you know who that’s for. But you couldn’t help yourself. Because it’s in charge now, not you.”

  Phelan said, scowling at the deck, “I got nothing to say.”

  “I’d like to help you, Bernard. But is there any way to get to you? Or do you have to ride this one down all the way?”

  Now the XO was trying to trap him. “I told you, I got nothing to say.”

  Dan waited. But that was all. He straightened then. “Okay, you’re tough. So we get tough, too. Who else have you been giving this to?”

  “It’s in the log. Why ask me?”

  “Because of the grass,” said Dan softly. “This is a Van Zandt tobacco pouch. So you didn’t bring it aboard with you, did you? You got it here. Who else is using? Who’ve you been sharing with—or selling to?”

  “I don’t got nothing to say to you,” said Phelan contemptuously. “You want to be some kind of detective, go ahead. I’m not playing your fucking games.”

  He suddenly realized then, just from Lenson’s eyes, that he’d pushed the wrong button. The exec’s face went hard and sharp as flaked quartz, and his hands went white on the desk. He opened his mouth to try to retrieve the words, but it was too late.

  “So you don’t play games,” Dan said softly. �
��Well, you’re not standing in front of me for our mutual amusement, Hospital-man Phelan. Are you? You’re looking down the barrel of an Article One twelve court-martial. Wrongful use and possession aboard ship, intent to distribute, that’s twenty years hard labor, my friend. Or death, if the court decides the war-zone provision applies.”

  “Sir, I didn’t—”

  “And I’d be happy to see it happen, Phelan. I don’t care for people who use and sell on board. You see, I lost a lot of shipmates once because of a bastard who was doing just that. You remind me of him, as a matter of fact.”

  “I didn’t mean that, sir. I—”

  “That’s enough.” The voice was flat. “I don’t want to hear it, Phelan.”

  Bernard stood rigid again, sweating now despite the chill. He didn’t believe what the exec was saying about death. That was just to scare him. But hard labor. Prison. Twenty years …

  Lenson stared up at him for a moment more. He kept his hands glued to the desk. Then, slowly, he raised one, and massaged his left shoulder for a few seconds. There were just too many parallels to the doomed Ryan. Too many things he didn’t want to remember.

  From outside came the roar of a truck engine, on the pier. At last he spun his chair around and pulled out a black-backed pub. He riffled through it, stopped to study a page, then snapped it closed and spun back. He still looked grim as he said, “How long were you on Long Beach?”

  “Six months, sir.”

  “How’d you get along there?”

  “All right, sir.”

  Nolan muttered something; Fitch snickered under his breath. Phelan ignored them. It was Lenson who was dangerous. “Why? Sir.”

  “Because, much as I’d like to, I don’t know if it’s practical to court-martial you aboard Van Zandt.” Dan looked toward the door, wondering what Sturgis was hearing at that moment; wondering at the irony of a man under suspicion sitting in judgment on another. “First off, we don’t have time, we’re … well, we don’t have time. For sure not today, and it looks like not for a few days.”

  “What’s going on, sir? I saw the troops on the pier—”

  “Later, Chief. It would also not be strictly fair to try you here, Phelan. We don’t know you; you don’t have anybody who can go to bat for you. If you deserve it, that is.” Dan paused again, looking toward the porthole. “What I had in mind was transferring you to CMEF headquarters. The legal beagles can decide whether to try you here or send you back to the States. Then again, they may remand you to Long Beach.