Fallen Pride (Jesse McDermitt Series) (9 page)

“Does this mean I have to salute you now?” she asked Deuce with a grin.

“Absolutely, babe,” he replied with a laugh.

The others in the class stopped by to congratulate her and a few minutes later, we were back in the parking lot. At the Expedition, I told
Deuce, “Why don’t the three of you head back to the hotel, so Julie can get changed? The three of us are meeting a friend for lunch and Luke will give us a ride back in an hour or so.”

We split up and I got in the small backseat of Luke’s black Mustang. Williams ratcheted the front seat as far forward as it would go to give me some leg room, but it was still pretty cramped.

“You know where the Gourmet Grill is, Luke?”

“That’s officer country,” he replied. “Not officially, but not man
y enlisted Marines go there.”

“First time for everything,” I said. “Besides, the friend we’re meeting is saltier than any officer aboard the base.”

Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot and Tank had been right. Nearly every car in the lot had a blue sticker on the windshield, denoting it was owned by an officer. It was 1045, but Tank was already there, standing by the door in his Alpha uniform. Tank should have retired long ago. He was in his mid-fifties, but looked much younger. He’d been in the Corps since Vietnam, where he’d received the Medal of Honor. He always said he only stayed in, because he got a kick out of officers saluting him and the Corps allowed it because they weren’t about to push retirement on a MOH recipient.

A young Marine Captain was walking ahead of us as we approached him. He made for quite an imposing figure in the Alpha uniform, with
eight rows of ribbons, topped with the pale blue Medal of Honor ribbon, the dive helmet and wings of Recon and nine ‘hash marks’ from his elbow to his sleeve denoting more than 36 years of service. The young Captain approached him, expecting to be saluted and Tank just stood there. The Captain was about to say something, when he noticed the ribbon on top of Tank’s rack and quickly saluted him.

After the Captain went through the doors I said, “Never gets old, does it?”

He gripped my extended hand and said, “Hell no, only thing I hang around for anymore. Damn good to see you again, Jesse.”

“Same here Tank. Meet a couple of friends of mine, Dave Williams and his son, Corporal Luke Williams.
Dave, Luke, this is Master Gunnery Sergeant Owen Tankersley.”

He shook hands with both of them and opened the door for us. “
Just a high ranked doorman these days. Hell, the Corps doesn’t even give me anything to do anymore.”

We went inside and the talking among the Marines in the restaurant came to a near complete silence as all heads turned toward the two enlisted men and the two civilians. Tank paid them little attention as he nodded to the hostess, who quickly escorted us to a rear table, away from the others.

“Have a seat men,” Tank said. “I asked the manager to set up a table back here just for us.”

We sat down in a semi-circle around the table
and a waitress appeared and quickly took our orders. Tank, as usual, cut straight to the chase, “So, you want to know what happened to your son in Iraq?”

“I just want to help him,” Williams replied.

“It was pretty bad,” Tank began. “Jared was part of the lead element when 1/9 was spooled back up and he was assigned to 6
th
Marines when we deployed. Three months into our deployment, he and his spotter located a high value target in a house north of Ashraf. They’d been in position for two days, watching and waiting for a chance to take out one of Al-Qaeda’s top people. Once he was cleared to engage the target, he took the shot. But, the target’s daughter stepped in front of the window and she was killed. Jared was debriefed by a CIA spook, who made out like he’d killed the girl on purpose. I don’t blame the kid one bit when he flipped and started beating the shit outa the spook. Anyway, the CIA guy had connections, both political and financial. He took the beating kind of personal and railroaded your son, had him court martialed, and dishonorably discharged. I know Jared, he was a good Marine and had a real future in the Corps. Personally, I’d like to meet that spook, Jason Smith, in a dark alley one day.”

I was stunned at first. “Jason Smith?”

“You know him?

Three hours later, we were flying over the ocean again, south of Myrtle Beach, SC. I’d been lost in thought ever since lunch with Tank. Jason Smith was Deuce’s, and therefore my, old boss, the former Assistant Director of the Caribbean Counter-Terrorism Command for DHS. Deuce hadn’t told me any of the details about why he was no longer there, or why he’d been transferred to Djibouti, in the Horn of Africa. I’d been there once, not a pleasant place and a wonderful place for him to be sent. To say I didn’t like the man would be putting it mildly.

“Jesse!” Williams said.

“Yeah, huh?”

“I said do you wanna take the controls for a while?”

Deuce, Rusty and Julie had been talking away in back. Deuce told her about Sunday’s plans with the President and the role she was going to play. They were now quiet, looking forward to where I sat in the co-pilot’s seat.

“Sorry, I must have dozed off. How about Julie and I switch seats? Maybe she’d like to fly some.
”

I started unbuckling my seat belt and looked back at Julie. “Me?” she asked. “Fly an airplane? This is only the fourth time I’ve ever been in one and the first three were airliners.”

Deuce saw that I’d been troubled since we got back to the hotel and said, “Go ahead, babe. Just like driving a boat.”

I climbed back
, sat down in the seat opposite Rusty as Julie climbed forward, took the co-pilot’s seat and put on the headset. Once she was settled in and Williams was busy telling her what to do, I motioned to Deuce. He took off his headset, leaned forward and in a low voice asked, “What’s on your mind, Jesse?”

Rusty leaned across the narrow space between the seats and pulled off his headset. “I need to know more about how and why Smith got transferred,” I said.

“It’s a bit of a long story,” Deuce replied. “Can it wait?”

“Smith was responsible for Williams’s son getting a DD. He was the one that debriefed him in Iraq two years ago.”

“Long story short, he was pissed about our sudden take down of the camp in Cuba and his not calling the shots.”

“I thought he was in the loop the whole time,” Rusty said.

“No, I should have let him make the call, but I knew he wouldn’t go for it and screw around, till Tony was killed.” Tony Jacobs was one of Deuce’s operators that came with him to DHS from the SEALS. A wiry, black guy with a great sense of humor, I’d grown to not just like him, but respect his sense of service. Several months ago, we’d dropped him and another team member, Art Newman, off near the coast of Cuba to swim ashore and get intel on a terrorist camp that was stockpiling weapons for an attack on civilian targets in Miami. Tony was captured and Deuce and I, along with a few other operators went in and got him out, along with the leader of the terrorist cell and the arms supplier.

“So, he complained to the Secretary?” I asked.

“The DHS Secretary, SecNav and the CNO,” he said, meaning the Secretary of the Navy and the Chief of Naval Operations. “He tried to get both you and me ousted for being insubordinate. But, he’d been a thorn in the side of all three for some time. He was only appointment ADD due to some political ties. Chertoff, Winter and Admiral Mullen conference called me and I told them exactly what happened and my concern about Tony being left behind. Smith’s a civilian and didn’t understand our creed of not leaving a man behind. Apparently they agreed, because the next thing I knew, he was gone and Stockwell took over.”

I thought
it over a moment. “I wonder if there’s any grounds that might be used to get Williams’s son’s DD over turned.”

“It’s happened before
. “A lot of guys in the last couple of years have been dishonorably discharged for things that weren’t quite right. Poor leadership in most cases. Want me to look into it?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve only met the kid once, but he seemed to be a pretty decent guy and my friend Owen Tankersley vouched for him at lunch today.”

“Owen Tankersley of ‘they thought I knew where the mines were’ fame?”

“One and the same,” I replied.

“He’s still active duty? That was what, 1969?”

“
It was1970. Yeah, he’s still active. He’s a Master Gunnery Sergeant, with 9
th
Marines.”

Deuce thought about it for a minute and said, “But would he stick his neck out for a junior Marine who was dishonorably discharged?”

“I think he would,” Rusty said. “Met him once in Oki. He was a good Marine then, always looked after his troops. Hard to believe he’s still active after 37 years.”

“Good PR for the Corps to have a salty old Non-Com with a Medal of Honor around his neck,” I said, then added with a grin, “Plus he likes having officers salute him.”

“I’ll do a little background investigation tomorrow,” Deuce said. “Maybe I can have a word with Stockwell on Sunday about it. Give me Tankersley’s contact information when we land and I’ll give him a call, too.”

We sat back and put our headsets back on. Williams was still coaching Julie and when I looked forward, she was on the controls, grinning from ear to ear.

We refueled in Jacksonville, Florida, had a quick bite to eat, visited the head and were back in the air in 40 minutes. Less than three hours later, we touched down at NAS Boca Chica. I called Jackie while we were on approach and asked her when she would get off work. She was just ending her shift, so I asked if she’d like to have dinner and would she give me a ride back to Marathon, I had something important to talk to her about.

We sat
in the back of the Runway Grill. A few months ago, Jackie brought me here while I was recovering in the base hospital. “So, is this a date date, or do you just have something to tell me?”

We’d just ordered our steaks, so I simply posed the question bluntly.
“Do you have a security clearance?”

“Ah, not a date then.” She looked a bit disappointed. Jackie is a beautiful woman, with long auburn hair, chiseled features like fine china and even under her doctor’s smock, it was obvious she took great care of her body. “But, to answer your question, these days all
Naval officers receive a secret clearance, regardless of whether they’re a medical doctor or a secret squirrel infantry officer. Why?”

“Would you like to go on a date?” I said with a grin.

“I need a security clearance to go on a date with you?”

“Kind of a group date,” I said, still grinning.

“What gives, Jesse? Stop beating around the bush.”

“Okay,” I said getting serious. “What I’m going to tell you goes no further than this table.” She nodded, so I continued. “Remember that phone call you got, while I was still in the hospital here? The ‘highest ranking government official’ that ever called you?”

“DHS Secretary Chertoff? Yes, I remember.”

“He said he wanted me to take him and a guy from Texas out fishing. Remember that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with my memory, Jesse. Would you just get on with it?”

I grinned again and said, “I need someone in uniform, with a security clearance to be Second Mate on Sunday, when I take the Secretary and the President on a fishing trip.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope, just got the call this morning. You game?”

She thought it over for about a half second and said, “I’ll get to meet the President? In person?”

“I already submitted your name to the Secret Service,” I said grinning ear to ear. “Hope that’s not to presumptuous of me.”

“It’s a date then! What do I wear?”

“How about a string bikini?”

She reached across the table and punched me in the shoulder. “Or whatever the Navy equivalent of the Marine Charlie uniform is,” I chuckled.

“That’s the khaki short sleeves, with green pants?”

“Trousers, but yeah.”

“I’ll wear the Service Khaki uniform then. Will I really get to meet him?”

“It’s a small boat,” I said. “You might bump into him from time to time.”

“But I can’t tell anyone?”

“Not until after he leaves. I’ll make sure there’s pictures.”

Our food arrived then and we ate. She asked me how my back was and if I had any more problems.
I’d been her patient last winter, when I took a bullet in the back in Cuba. It tore a hole in my right lung and lodged in my spine, just millimeters from my spinal cord. She operated for three hours, to remove it and put me in a medically induced coma for two weeks.

“I’m right as rain, thanks to you,” I said.

“Probably more to do with your physique than my skill,” she said with a wicked grin. Probably remembering when she’d bet me a steak dinner that I couldn’t stand up the day after I came out of the coma. When I did it, I was totally naked. But, the effort got me outside that evening to watch the sunset and she was true to her word and bought both me and my First Mate, Doc Talbot, a steak dinner. Doc had been a Navy Corpsman in Afghanistan. When I met him, he was First Mate on Trent’s shrimp trawler. I managed to get him a spot on Deuce’s team, as they were in need of a Corpsman or Medic. He probably saved my life that night in Cuba.

After dinner she drove me up US-1
to Marathon. We stopped at a little parking lot on the east side of the Seven Mile Bridge to watch the sun go down. It’s a spectacle I try to enjoy every day I can. The sky was cloudy as the sun sank toward Mother Ocean and it disappeared behind a cloud bank. A moment later, the lower part began to emerge below the clouds and soon turned the far away cloud bank a pale orange, before it slipped below the horizon.

We got back in Jackie’s Jaguar and drove to the
Anchor
, where my boat was still docked and a full blown ‘wetdown’ celebration was taking place. It’s an old Naval tradition, usually for newly promoted officers, where he or she throws a party and spends the difference in pay from their old rank to pay the bar tab. Since Rusty and Julie owned the bar, this could turn out to be a wild one.

Jackie and
I walked into the crowded bar amid a chorus of shouts and whistles, as everyone tossed down a shot of rum. “Welcome aboard, mates!” shouted Rusty over the din. “You’ve missed the first toast, but belly up, there’s sure to be more.”

“Have you ever been to a wetdown?” I asked Jackie as we stepped up to the bar. Rufus was behind
it with Rusty and placed two shot glasses in front of us and poured a finger of Pusser’s in each.

“Actually, no,” she replied. “I always thought they were a bit too formal.”

“Marines don’t stand much on formality,” Rusty said. Then he turned to the crowd and lifted his glass. “Mister Vice, a toast.”

Julie and Deuce were seated at the head of the bar and Julie stood up. “Ladies and gentlemen. To the Commandant of the United States Coast Guard, Admiral Thad Allen!”

Jackie started to stand up, but I touched her arm and shook my head. A roar went up from the seated crowd, “United States Coast Guard.” Everyone, Jackie and I included, tossed down the rum.

“It’s tradition to remain seated during the toasts,” I explained. “This is kind of a mix between a wetdown and dining in.”

Rufus and Rusty quickly poured another finger in the dozens of glasses placed on the bar. When everyone was again seated, Rusty called on Julie for another toast.

“Why does he call Julie ‘Mister Vice’?” Jackie asked.

“You really need to get out among your Naval friends more,” I said. “Preferably the enlisted. Nobody parties like we do. Mister Vice is the traditional name given to the lowest ranking member, who is the one that makes the toasts.”

Julie stood up, lifted
her glass and said, “Ladies and gentlemen. To the Commandant of the Marine Corps, General Michael Hagee!”

Jackie caught on quickly and lifted her glass with the others and shouted, “United States Marine Corps
!”

The toasts continued to the other branches
until finally Rusty poured a full two fingers in every glass and Deuce stood up, turned to Julie and solemnly said, “Mister Vice, one last toast.”

Julie stood and turned to the crowd
and in a hushed voice said, “Ladies and gentlemen, will you please stand.”

With t
he scratching of chairs on the hardwood floor, everyone stood up. Julie turned to the corner of the bar to the left of the door and I noticed for the first time, the Missing Man table. Everyone turned toward it.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began
, raising her glass. “A toast to all the warriors who preceded us but never came home. We knew them, we'll remember them, and they will not be forgotten. To our fallen comrades!”

“Our fallen comrades!” everyone shouted and tossed down the 15 year old rum.

Rusty rang the ship’s bell behind the bar and immediately the back door opened and four men carried huge trays to the main table set up in the center. Each tray was loaded with the bounty of the sea, lobster, stone crab claws, clams, oysters, and fish of all kinds.

“Everyone dig in!” Rusty shouted
as he tried to hide wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. For his size, thick red beard, and general gruff attitude, the guy was actually pretty emotional at times. I couldn’t help but be moved by Julie’s toast myself.