The Gulf (56 page)

“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.

“Does that sound like fair treatment?”

Bernard didn't have to think too long about that. Looking at what Lenson was saying, maybe he better get that lawyer. He might be able to work something out ashore. For sure, this guy scared him. He didn't want to be around him anymore.

So he said, “Yessir, that might be better all around.”

“Good. I believe I can persuade the captain to do that, Phelan, if you tell the three of us who else is using aboard this ship.”

“Okay.” He grinned. “Can do. But you got to do something else for me, too.” He felt better now. Get them bargaining and you were halfway home.

Lenson didn't say anything, just waited, his face slightly turned away.

“You got to drop the dealing charge. Just say I was using what was in sick bay.”

“No.”

“Well … how about dropping the grass, then? I can tell them—how about just dropping the grass, sir? I never even smoked any; I was just holding it for somebody else.”

“Who?” said Nolan. Phelan gave him a quick, angry look. Fuck it. They had him boxed.

“Okay, okay, you got it. The guys you want are Quint and two other guys, I think they're snipes. I forget their names, but one of 'em's got a tattoo on his left arm, a Confederate flag; and the other guy they call Ham. You check their lockers. You'll have 'em cold.”

“Chief?”

“I know them,” said Nolan grimly.

“Who else?” said Lenson.

“That's it. Just them. Oh, and Golden's a queer. Just thought you'd like to know.” He grinned.

“Get this shit off my desk, Doc,” said Dan. He stood up. “And this scum off my ship. He's got twenty minutes. Chief, watch him while he packs, then escort him off. The yeoman will have transfer papers on the quarterdeck. We'll send the charge sheet and the evidence over by guard mail this afternoon.”

“Aye, sir. Armed escort to the compound, sir?”

“I don't think that's necessary. He hasn't been violent, and there's no place else he can go.”

“Aye, sir. Seaman Phelan! Cover—
two.
About—
face.
Forward—
march.
”

The last he saw of the exec, he was standing by his desk, looking down at the grass.

*   *   *

Nolan stood over him while he threw his shit into the seabag. The chief took the bottles of cough syrup and his knife and wouldn't give them back. He wanted a shower, his dungarees were sweated through, but he knew it was no good even asking. He got his whites on—he'd have to go through town to get to the compound—and lugged the duffel up two ladders to the main deck.

Topside it was hot, as usual. The yeoman was waiting with a manila envelope. There were a lot of other people standing around on the quarterdeck, too, officers and civilians, and some trucks on the pier. He didn't really see them. He was too mad. He realized too late how the fucking XO had outmaneuvered him. Got what he wanted, and given him nothing in return.

He walked past men with guns without seeing them. He broke out sweating again as he realized Lenson had shafted him royal. He'd just be a number at headquarters. What if they had a computer, they might dig up the desertion charge. Even
Long Beach
wouldn't be much better. Captain Golubovs hated druggies like poison.

He edged around a truck, shifted the bag on his shoulders, muttering to himself, and trudged on.

The pier was about a mile long and he was sweating through his jumper before he got a hundred yards. He was hot and his guts hurt. He hadn't had anything all day. Not even the skin-pop, Nolan had barged in before he'd finished. His hand moved absently about before he realized he was out of cigarettes, too.

When he was sure he was out of sight from the quarterdeck, he stopped and unslung the duffel, looking carefully around. A hungry-looking, dirty cat was watching him from a sliver of shadow by a bollard; that was all.

He tried to pat it, but it retreated. “You, too,” he muttered. “Ain't it a bitch.” Nobody cared. Not Denise, not the Navy, nobody. Self-pity flooded him.

Well, if that's the way they wanted it, Bernard Newekwe had ways to cope.

He stretched the ache out of his back, looking around again, and at last took the Zippo out of his crackerjacks. He pulled the lighting element out and extracted the cotton reservoir.

The tablet was damp with kerosene, but whole, and he rubbed his hand over his mouth and swallowed.

He'd needed it bad and it hit fast, putting a spring in his step and lightening the load in his mind. He was almost to the head of the pier and thinking about a taxi when he saw a whaleboat at the landing. Four guys in dungarees were loading cans. He stopped to watch them for a minute. The side of the boat read DDG-2.

“Hey,” he called.

“Hey what,” said one of the guys. They were working hard, piling the cans in lickety-split.

“Where you guys from?”

They were from something called the
Charles Adams.
She was out in the anchorage, standing by for them to come back.