In the van one of the men spoke to the chief. “They took us for Americans, Colonel. We are going to succeed.”
Maybe, Qazi thought. If Allah wills it.
The carabinieri on the gate to the quay didn’t even look at Jake and Gardner as they marched Kowalski through. They followed the fence around to the right toward the area used by the carrier’s boats. The intermittent raindrops were falling steadily now. The Shore Patrol van was parked by the little duty shack and the chief was talking to the embarkation officer. Six drunks in civilian clothes lay facedown in casualty litters under the awning and two Shore Patrolmen were strapping them in.
“Got another basket?” Jake asked, holding Kowalski semi-erect with one hand and wiping the water from his hair with the other.
“Yessir. We have plenty,” said the embarkation officer, a lieutenant (junior grade) named Rhodes. He jerked his head at the chief, who stepped over to the pile of baskets behind the shack and helped Gardner lift one off. The chief helped Jake lower Kowalski into it.
“Mr. Rhodes,” Jake sighed as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve and watched Gardner struggle with the litter straps with his one good hand. The chief bent down to help. “There’s no report chit on this man. Just take him back to the ship and have him escorted to his bunk. I’ll see the XO about him in the morning.”
“Aye aye, sir. Oh, I have a message for you. Lieutenant Tarkington left it.”
“He showed up, huh?”
“Wandered in about two hours ago and I told him his liberty had been secured. He just nodded and asked for some paper. After he wrote this, he went back to the ship.” The duty officer passed Jake a folded square of paper, apparently a sheet from a notebook. On the outside was written “CAPT Grafton.”
Jake walked away, unfolding the paper. “Thanks, Chief.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Jake glanced back at the name tag. “Dustin.” The chief was in his early forties, dark hair flecked with gray, tanned and fit. No fat on that frame. “Aye aye, sir?” He should have said, “Yes, sir” or “You’re welcome, sir.” “Aye aye” was used only to respond to an order.
“Where do you work …”he started to ask Dustin, but the chief had already turned away as another Shore Patrol van pulled up. The lieutenant that Jake had talked to earlier stepped out and watched two of his men escort the drunk in the multicolored shirt over to the litters. What is that lieutenant’s name, Jake wondered. Oh yes, Flynn.
Flynn and Dustin were having a conversation. Jake stepped close enough to hear.
“Chief, where were you this evening when we mustered? I didn’t even know you and your guys were out here tonight.”
“We got off the ship late, Mr. Flynn. And they sent us out to pick up drunks.” The chief shrugged.
“Who is they? I’m in charge of detachment tonight, and I didn’t even know you were going to be here.”
“Someone screwed up, sir. I’m obviously here.”
Jake turned to observe. Flynn was referring to a sheet of paper on a clipboard.
“I don’t even see you on this list.”
“Sir, they told me to come ashore and bring two men and go look for drunks.”
“Who the hell is they?”
“My division officer.”
“He may have sent you ashore, but he didn’t tell you to go pick up drunks. Who did?”
“Some officer down in the Shore Patrol office. He was there when I arrived on the beach a couple hours ago.”
“Lieutenant Commander Harrison?”
“He was a lieutenant commander, sir. But I didn’t notice his name.”
“Well, he shouldn’t have told you that. I didn’t even know he was going to be in the office this evening. And with that shooting over at the Vittorio, I can think up better things for you to do than taxi drunks around. Let’s walk down to the office and get this straightened out.”
“Mr. Flynn,” Jake called. “What shooting?”
The lieutenant came over to him, the chief behind him. “There was an assassination tonight over at the Vittorio, CAG. Two guys wasted with submachine guns.”
“Americans?”
“Not navy, sir. A couple civilians. I hear one of them looks like he could be an Arab. Maybe terrorists.”
“When?”
“About eight.” The lieutenant glanced at his watch. “Three hours or so ago, sir.”
Jake nodded, and the officer and chief walked away, down the pier toward the terminal building. The Shore Patrol office was at the far end, on the second deck. Jake opened the note from Toad.
“Sir,” it read. “The duty officer says you are looking for me. I am going back to the ship. I tried to call you at the hotel but got no answer. I need to talk to you URGENTLY on a very IMPORTANT matter. V/R, Tarkington. 20:50.” The “V/R” meant “very respectfully” and 20:50 was the time Toad wrote the note. Jake folded the paper and put it into his pocket.
He leaned against a pole. Seven drunks in litters was unusual. But it’s Saturday night, and they’ve been at sea for four months. Captain James was going to be busy with this lot next week. And some of them are probably air wing men, so he’ll send them to me. Jake sighed.
About fifty sailors in civilian clothes were standing, squatting, and sitting under the awning, watching the rain come down. Most had been drinking and they were in a cheerful mood. The banter was loud and light. The mike boat came sliding, toward the quay, its diesel engine falling silent as it coasted the last few yards to the early float.
The boat officer came ashore and went over to the duty officer. Jake followed him. Water glistened on his raincoat and the lower portion of his trouser legs were soaked.
“It’s getting bad out there, Rhodes. This may be the last boat tonight.”
“How bad?” Jake asked.
The boat officer turned to him. “Lots of swell. We damn near didn’t get against the fantail float this last trip. I guess four or five feet of sea. Wind’s picking up too. Maybe twenty-five knots out there.”
Jake nodded.
“Pretty early in the year for it to get this bad.”
The duty officer’s assistant, a first-class petty officer, was commandeering sailors to help get the drunks aboard. First they had to be released from the litters, which were used only to prevent unruly behavior on the pier, and placed into orange kapok life jackets for the boat ride, just in case they fell overboard. Then two men had to escort each drunk aboard the mike boat.
“You two guys, you have this man. Get over here and get with it.”
The two reluctant men at whom the first-class was pointing rose slowly and walked over. Transporting drunks was a nasty business. “For the love of Christ,” one of them complained as they turned their charge over. “This turd has really been drinking, man. Jesus, he smells like he spent the night
They jacked the drunk into a sitting position. He snorted and tried halfheartedly to cooperate. “Hey look! This dude has blood on him.”
One of the two stepped back. “Hey man,” he called to the first-class. “This guy’s bloody. Maybe he’s got that anally injected death serum.”
The first-class, a corpsman, stepped over and made a quick examination for wounds. He stood and struck a thoughtful pose, both arms crossed on his chest. “He looks the type, don’t he?”
“Yeah, man. He does. And who knows—”
“Shut up and grab him. You, too, clown,” he snarled at the companion. “Let’s go,” he roared to his working party. “Get ’em aboard.”
The two draftees rolled their eyes, glanced at Jake to see how he was taking all this, and finished strapping the life jacket to their shipmate.
Jake read Toad’s note again. He folded it slowly and eased it into his pocket.
