Tiger's Claw: A Novel

have difficulties learning about lying and cheating.”

Bradley suddenly forgot about his aching, rubbery arms. He looked up at Weber, who was about a half head taller than Brad. “Sir?”

“Are you eyeing me, Basic?” Weber shouted. “Cage your eyes!”

Brad stared at a spot straight ahead, away from Weber’s angry gaze. “Sir, begging the cadet instructor’s pardon, sir?”

“What?”

“Sir . . . sir, did you say something about McLanahans, sir?”

Weber smiled evilly, then waved at the guy with the fire hose to turn it on someone else. “Looks like I got a rise out of you, didn’t I, Basic McLanahan?” he observed. In a low voice, he said, “Everyone here knows who you are: son of the great General Patrick McLanahan, the hero of the American Holocaust, space hero, the greatest strategic bombing expert since General Curtis LeMay—or so he thinks. You’re the guy who got his Academy appointment from the president of the United States himself, served up on a silver platter, thanks to your daddy.”

He stepped even closer to Bradley, then added, “But my father told me who your daddy really is: a lying, cheating, thieving loose cannon, who flagrantly disobeys orders and does whatever the hell he feels like doing, and screw the chain of command and the Constitution. Now he thinks he can get his stuck-up son into the Air Force Academy with just a phone call to his pal in the White House, and you’ll just sail right through because of who your daddy is. Let me be the first to tell you, Basic: that’s not the way it’s going to work. My mission, and the mission of most of the second- and first-class, is to see you get booted out soonest.”

Weber stepped nose to nose with Bradley. “I worked my butt off for three years to get into the Academy,” he growled in a low, menacing voice. “I broke my ass in stupid sports I didn’t like, volunteered for the most ridiculous positions in the most ridiculous service clubs, took the SATs eleven times, and wrote dozens of letters to congressmen I didn’t even know to get an appointment. After all that, I didn’t get one, and I had to spend a year as a Preppie. And then, here you are. You get to just waltz in here and think you have it made.” He lowered his voice even more. “Well, let me tell you, McLanahan . . .” Weber took three fingers of his right hand and punched them into Bradley’s chest, “ . . . you’re history here. I’ll see to it, personally.”

Now Bradley’s entire body began to shake, not just his bone-weary arms. That made Weber smile and nod in satisfaction. “I knew it,” he said. “Your daddy never taught you how to deal with the real world, did he? That’s because he never dealt with it himself. He had his underlings do all the real fighting for him while he just sailed away safe and sound high above the fighting in his supersecret bombers.” He chuckled at his own insight, then said with a smirk, “Well, stop your crying and sniveling and go back to the beginning of the Pit. You still have . . .”

And to his surprise, Bradley let the M-16 rifle fall from his hands behind him into the mud.

“Pick that weapon up, Basic!” Weber shouted. “Are you insane? Pick it up, now!”

“Take it back, Weber,” Bradley said flatly.

“What did you say, Basic? Did you just address me by my last name?”

“I said: take it back, Weber.”

Weber’s eyes were bulging in complete and utter disbelief, and he stuck his face close to Bradley’s once again. “You will address me as ‘Sir,’ Basic!” he shouted, louder than Bradley ever remembered him doing so before. “And you will not direct me to do anything! I give the orders here!”

“I’ll tell you once more, Weber: take back what you said about my father,” Bradley said.

“Getting rid of you is going to be easier than I thought, McLanahan,” Weber said, his incredulous expression replaced by a broad, satisfied smile. Bradley’s eyes met his, which turned Weber’s expression back to one of red-hot rage. “You’re one step away from a board of review, maybe even an on-the-spot dismissal. Get your eyes off me, Basic!” But Bradley didn’t look away. “How dare you mouth off to a second-class, Basic? How dare you look me in the eye? Who do you think you are? You’re nothing but a candidate here, McLanahan, a wannabe. The only way you survive to attend my beloved Academy is to obey your superior officers, and that’s me.” And he punctuated that last sentence with another punch in Bradley’s chest with three fingers of his right hand . . .

. . . except the jab never landed, because Bradley swatted his hand away.

“You just laid a hand on me, Basic!” Weber shouted, his voice just now beginning to grow hoarse. “That’s an automatic trip to the squadron commander. You’re one step away from going home to your daddy. Get your eyes off me, Basic!”

“Take back what you said about my father, Weber,” Brad repeated, then added, “or you’ll be sorry.”

“You’re threatening me now, Basic?” Weber exclaimed, his eyes bulging in anger and disbelief. “If you want to go home to your daddy so bad, McLanahan, why don’t you just ring out? It’s easy. I’ll take you to the squadron commander, and you tell him you want to go home, and that’s it.” Bradley said nothing.

Weber moved face-to-face with Bradley. “But if you want to stay—if you’re afraid of getting rejected by your own daddy by going home before you even begin fourth class—then this is what you have to do: you apologize sincerely for touching me; you promise to uphold the basic principles of the Academy; and you agree to assist me in all my additional duties for your entire fourth year, in addition to all your other requirements. If you agree to all these things, I’ll omit filing a report on you for your breaches of conduct in this evolution, and you can continue Second Beast.” Weber nodded. “You did very well in First Beast, McLanahan, and even though your M-16 is lying in the mud right now, you haven’t done anything more egregious than what a lot of dipshit Basics do in Second Beast. You can still pull this out of your ass if you choose to do so. What say you, McLanahan?”

Bradley didn’t take his eyes off Weber, but looked him straight in the eye . . . for just a few moments, before caging his eyes, looking straight ahead at nothing, then said, “Sir, Basic McLanahan begs the cadet sergeant’s indulgence and sincerely apologizes for his inexcusable insubordination. Basic McLanahan was completely out of line, promises never to touch or threaten an upperclassman ever again for any reason, appeals to the cadet sergeant’s mercy to allow him to continue the Second Beast, and humbly requests the cadet sergeant’s permission to be his undergraduate assistant during the fourth-class year. Basic McLanahan also promises to completely honor, uphold, and defend the principles of the Air Force Academy to the complete satisfaction of the cadet sergeant.” Bradley closed his eyes, filled his lungs, then shouted, “Sir!”

Weber nodded and smiled with smug triumph. “Very good, Basic,” he said. “We might make a fourth classer out of you yet. Now pick up your rifle, then return to the beginning of the Pit. On the double.”

“Sir, yes sir!” Brad responded. He turned and stooped down to pick up the M-16 . . .

. . . and as he did he heard Weber say in a low voice, “Now if we can just get your whack-job daddy to apologize for the mess he’s caused our country, we’d all be in real good shape.”

Brad couldn’t describe what he was thinking about at that moment, or why he did what he did. All he knew is in a split second he had tackled Weber and was on top of him in the mud. He remembered getting two good punches in on Weber’s face before he heard several whistle blasts and shouts and felt hands reaching for him from behind . . .

. . . and he knew those whistle blasts signaled the end of his attendance at the U.S. Air Force Academy, and probably the end of any career in the military as well.

ONE

THE SOUTH CHINA SEA, TWO HUNDRED MILES SOUTHEAST OF HO CHI MINH CITY, VIETNAM

THAT SAME TIME

The American survey ship Lady Garner had been at its assigned search area for five months. From its home port in Long Beach, California, the ship had been hired by the Vietnamese oil company