know precisely what those traditions are. Ironically, when Winston Churchill was accused of threatening the British Navy’s traditions during World War I, he is widely reported to have said, “And what are those traditions, save rum, sodomy and the lash?”
1
“You goddamned lying son of a bitch!”
Don Hawkins showered Giles’s face with spittle but the hospital corpsman made no move to wipe it away. Don’s glare was pure rage. He waited. The stench of fear overpowered the Balboa Naval Hospital’s pungent odors of antiseptic, fresh paint and linoleum wax. “Spineless motherfucker! How many jams have Eddie and I helped you out of when you had nowhere else to go?”
Retreating, Giles sideswiped a roller cart and knocked over a stack of empty urine cups. “Look, y-y-you can’t—”
“I should drag you in that utility closet and beat your ass.”
“Easy, killer.” Eddie stepped in, putting his hand on the tall Marine’s shoulder. “Our boy Giles here, he’s just following his orders.”
A bead of sweat dripped from Giles’s nose, splattering his scrubs. “That’s r-r-right. I-I-I’m just following orders.”
“My ass.” Don lowered his voice, spying a high-ranking officer entering the opposite corridor. “You followin’ orders when you light up a joint? Huh, Sailor? How ’bout when you hand in somebody else’s piss and tell the Navy it’s your own?”
“It’s the new executive officer,” Giles hissed. “She’s triple-checking everyone’s work. We’re not talking about a slap on the wrist. If I get caught, it’s a court-martial and a dishonorable discharge.”
Eddie hooked Don’s coiled bicep. “Come on. We asked nice. If Giles doesn’t value our friendship, we’ll go to Plan B.”
Don shook him off. “He doesn’t get off that easy. He promised he’d take care of this. He owes us.”
“It’s a felony offense,” Giles whispered. “Yeah, you’ve helped me out—a lot—but not enough to get thrown in the brig at Fort Leavenworth. Doin’ hard labor.”
Eddie smiled at the trembling Sailor. “I been in the Navy fifteen years. Don’s got that much time in the Marine Corps. We understand how the military works, okay? You got a new hospital XO who wants to show everyone she’s the boss. It’ll all blow over in a week or so. Besides, Clinton just became the president two days ago! Soon, none of this will matter.”
“Why don’t you just wait on Clinton? Why do I gotta stick my neck out now?”
“Because, asshole,” Don said, “this is the military and deadlines matter. Eddie’s got one more week to submit his sample. It’s pretty fucking simple—even for a squid like you. Draw my blood, ‘accidentally’ label it with Eddie’s name and social, and turn it in.”
The high-ranking officer at the opposite end of the hall looked impatiently at her watch, calling out: “Petty Officer Giles, you were supposed to be at the ER ten minutes ago. I assume you’ll conclude your business here and report there immediately!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Giles replied. He turned back to Don and Eddie. “Friday. Payday. Everyone in the military will be out in San Diego. It’s gonna be a long fucking night.”
Giles started to walk way, but Don grabbed him by the arm one last time. “Hey, ‘Doc.’ Think you’re gonna show up on the battlefield, taking care of my Marines? Think again—or you’re gonna be the one needin’ a corpsman.”
2
“You seen enough?” Oliver Tolson asked his trainee. “I don’t want to waste my whole Saturday watching other people have fun on their day off.”
From his boss’s car, Agent Jay Gared viewed the homosexuals playing in Balboa Park. Perverts cared nothing for nature and proper gender roles. They wasted their lives chasing pleasure; Jay’s dad had called them “hedonists.” They failed to contribute to society and they corrupted young people, poisoning tomorrow’s citizens. Jay couldn’t show his true feelings too strongly, though, because Director Tolson had commented that he seemed obsessed with the military’s homosexual problem.
“Not yet, sir.” Jay watched a shirtless young man rub sunscreen on the back of a larger guy. The younger man joined a volleyball game across the field while two other men—one black, one white—sat at a picnic table. The black man had a dachshund, reminding Jay of his grandmother’s Porky, and the few happy memories of his teenage years. The volleyball player shouted, bringing Jay out of his reverie. The man was short, muscular and handsome, and didn’t display the telltale effeminate characteristics of a homosexual. “The most dangerous kind.”
“What’re you looking for, Jay?” Ollie asked. “What’re you trying to show me? Naval Investigative Service resources are scarce and the political climate is too volatile for us to chase gays out of the service. These ‘witch hunts’—a phrase I hate because it was legitimate work—used to pay off. Homos were an easy target. We caught one, they turned on each other like jackals and NIS achievement records looked good. That’s not the case anymore. They stick together. Times are different and NIS reports all the way up the chain to the friggin’ president. We know his story. He got elected because of the gays. I’m telling you, Gared, leave them alone! If they admit they’re queer, we got them, but if they don’t, proving it’s too much trouble.” Ollie paused and shook his head. “Besides, we have enough problems in San Diego with drugs and gang activity near—hell, even on—the bases. Keeps us busy twenty-four/seven.”
“With all due respect, sir, sodomy is still a criminal act under Article 125 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. I intend to be the best damn agent you ever had and I plan to catch, prosecute, and lock up as many violators of every article of the UCMJ as possible.”
“I got six months till retirement. No way in hell will you be the best damn agent I ever had. I’ve worked with the best and they end up fired, in jail—or dead. Just do what I tell you.”
Jay hoped Ollie would think his silence was consent. Drugs and gang-related activity were problems anyone could handle. Only the most dedicated agent would do the unspeakable things Jay was willing to do in order to nab his villains. Jay saw the big picture. America was great only because her military was great. America’s military had been in trouble for twenty years—since the fall of Saigon—and the pro-military heyday of the Reagan years was over. Clinton and his unacceptable elements threatened to erode the military; if they succeeded, they would ruin America. The military was the last stand; if its leaders caved, America would no longer be the world’s greatest nation. And God intended America to remain great. NIS Agent Jay Gared was determined to do his part to ensure that America never fell from greatness.
“Enemy missile positions! Straight ahead!”
“Damn it!” said Colonel Leonard Spencer. Intelligence had briefed the pilots that these scruffy desert mountains were friendly territory. “What kind? How many? How far?” He fired the questions into his mouthpiece. He pushed the helicopter’s stick forward, dropping the Marine Corps AH-1W Super Cobra close to the ground where the earth’s heat and light sources would interfere with the hostile detection systems.
“Looks like two—shit—three shoulder-fired missile teams. First is over the ridgeline nine clicks,” came the low, gravelly voice of the pilot in the Cobra ahead to Leonard’s right.
“Nine kilometers.” Leonard instantly performed the calculations in his head. “Good, we’re still out of range. We have just enough time. Sledge, bypass team one to the south. Fly in low through the saddle. Take out team two. We’ll hit team one and search for team three. Copy?”
The voice hesitated. “We should go toward the sun, Royal. The glare will defeat the heat-seeking guidance systems in the missile warheads.”
“Negative. Your