Battleline (2007) (29 page)

There was no cheering among Brannigan's Brigands, only a quiet acceptance of the outcome of Operation Battleline. Now they needed some time and space to catch their breath, and work themselves back to their premission way of life. The grinding of a few administrative wheels brought about some transfers of the newer men, since there was no longer a lot for them to do aboard the
Daly.
James Duncan, Lamar Smith, Tom Greene, J. T. Snooker, Chuck Betnarik, Tiny Burke, and Hump Dobbs said their good-byes and were carried away via a U. S. Navy Seahawk chopper to the nearby CVBG for further transportation to other duty stations. That left twenty-four total members of the detachment; five more than they had before the onset of Operation Battleline. Some of the other new men--Ensign Taylor, Matsuno, Benson, Sturgis, and MacTavish--were now permanently assigned to the detachment.

These unexpected reinforcements made the Brigands slightly suspicious. Perhaps the powers-that-be had some future heavy-duty plans for them. Anything could happen in that part of the world.

.

8 SEPTEMBER 1400 HOURS

ONE sign that the SEALs were ready to get on with things as before was that the BVBL--Brigand Volleyball League--was back in business, reorganized and ready to play its particular brand of the sport. That meant outrageous bad-mouthing, charging under the net and tackling opposition players, refusal to give up the ball when a side's service was ended, and other irregularities that added so much charm to the contests. The two permanently organized teams had no names other than those given them by their opponents, such as the Dickheads, Candy Asses, Ass Faces, and a colorful one from the mind of Chad Murchison who christened the other team as the Ignoble Flaneurs. Bruno Puglisi like the sound of the name until he learned it meant Despicable Loafers. Even then he wasn't quite sure if it was really an insult.

Now, in the second game of the new season, a particularly competitive contest was under way, with a nothing-to-nothing tie score that had held for quite a while. This impasse had occurred because of things such as taped rolls of gasket material being thrown at the servers while they tried to hit the balls over the net. The gaskets were stolen from the engine and maintenance compartments on the vehicle decks forward of the launching dock, and rolled into projectiles that weren't heavy, but stung sharply when they struck anybody. With a little creative effort, the duct tape used in the construction could be fashioned into sharp edges.

Ensign Orlando Taylor thoroughly enjoyed the rough-and-tumble version of volleyball. He found this disregard of any sort of rules or discipline refreshing and stimulating after the strict upbringing in his father's house, where obedience to decorum was paramount. This included forbidding participation in sports because Mr. Taylor considered them detrimental to getting a good education.

The scoreless game that day followed the usual procedures, but things went even more awry when Bruno Puglisi punched Monty Sturgis through the net after he spiked the ball. Sturgis went ape, charging through the stringed barrier so hard that he ripped it in two. He and Puglisi went at it, swinging hard punches and counterpunches viciously as the melee developed. They eventually began kicking at each other amid bellows of encouragement from the other players. The two-man riot could have gone on for a lot longer until a bawling voice drowned out the noise of the ruckus.

"What the fuck is going on?"

The sound of the Skipper's bellowing brought instant peace over the scene. Everyone turned his way, seeing that SCPO Buford Dawkins was with him. The senior chief walked up to the damaged net. "You heard the commanding officer. Answer the question."

Taylor felt it was his responsibility, since he was the senior ranking man present. He stepped forward with a salute, saying, "Sir! We are playing volleyball."

"Ah, yes," Brannigan said. "The BVBL, hey? And there seems to be a league violation of some sort here. At least a somewhat serious disagreement as to whether an infraction has occurred."

"Yes, sir!" piped up a few voices.

"Well, well," Brannigan mused. "Something must be done about this, as in any other sport." He was thoughtful for a few moments, then made an announcement. "As of this moment I am appointing Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins as the Commissioner of the Brigand Volleyball League." He turned to Dawkins. "I expect you to hold a hearing on this incident, Commissioner, and see that proper justice is dispensed to all concerned. And remember that good sportsmanship must be encouraged. As the old saying goes, 'It isn't whether you win or lose, but how you play the game.'

"Aye, sir!" Dawkins said. He glared at the players. "Alright! Assemble in the shade at the aft side of the island. Do it now!"

Brannigan walked off as the players headed for the meeting place, with the senior chief following. When they arrived at the spot, each team split off to keep separate from their opponents, and Dawkins gave them yet another scowling glare.

"As officially appointed Commissioner of the Brigand Volleyball League I do hereby call this hearing to order, and that means ever'body shut the fuck up." He paused to make sure his authority was recognized. "Alright! This team on my left. You, Miskoski. What started this ruckus?"

"Well, Senior Chief, my good buddy Petty Officer Second Class Bruno Puglisi of the United States Navy was playing volleyball," Joe announced.

"Was he playing in an officially sanctioned game of the Brigand Volleyball League?" the Senior Chief asked.

"Yes, Senior Chief, and Petty Officer Puglisi was playing a straight-up game when all of a sudden one of them hooligans by the name of Sturgis hauled off and pasted him in his snot locker. For no reason! Then, o' course, Petty Officer Puglisi had to pertect hisself to keep from getting the shit beat out of him."

"Okay," the Senior Chief said. "That's enough. Now I need a spokesguy from the other team. Murchison, you"--he stopped speaking--"on the other hand, nobody can understand what you say. So Assad, you testify."

"Right, Senior Chief. And I'd like to say straight off that Miskoski is a goddamn rotten liar and I wouldn't trust him any further than that snake that bit the raghead. And I mean that in all respect."

"So noted," the Senior Chief said. "Proceed with your testimony."

"Well, my teammate and gentleman Petty Officer
First
Class Montgomery Sturgis, who I would like to remind you outranks his assassin, was attacked and nearly killed during the game by Petty Officer
Second
Class Bruno 'the Brute' Puglisi right after making a legal, authorized spike of the ball. And I ain't sure, but I thought Puglisi pulled a knife on Monty. Anyhow, he attacked poor Monty out of pure meanness."

"Okay, that's enough," the Senior Chief said. He appeared to lapse into deep thought for a few moments, then said, "I've reached a verdict. Both Puglisi and Sturgis are guilty of poor sportsmanship, cheating, and assault and battery, along with conduct unbecoming a human being. I therefore fine them four cases of beer each. They are to have said brew purchased no later than two bells in the evening watch, and see that it is placed iced-down and cold in the ready room. At that time the beer will be consumed by all members of the SEAL detachment commanded by Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan. I have rendered my decision in this matter, and it is final! Dismissed!"

Everyone, with the exception of Puglisi and Sturgis, cheered the outcome of the hearing. The sharing of this costly punishment wiped away the animosity between them.

Things were back to normal.

.

IRANIAN SF CAMP

NORTHWESTERN IRAN

THE camp actually had no name, and was referred to as
ordu makhus--the
special camp--by both the Iranian government and the Army.

One of the small garrison's denizens, Major Archibald Sikes--aka Sikes Pasha-had recovered completely from his shoulder wound suffered during the fighting on the Afghanistan border. It was still a bit stiff and if he turned over on it in his sleep, it smarted enough to wake him. However, he had full use of the arm, and there didn't appear to be any permanent disability involved. But he wasn't worried about the injury anyway. He had only half a dozen survivors of his Arabs, including Warrant Officer Shafaqat Hashiri, and he was fretful as hell about his situation.

The whole Iranian thing he'd been sucked into was falling apart. In fact, the Iranians were now showing more concern about themselves than any grandiose plans of conquest that encompassed the entire Middle East. There was no more talk about their Persian Empire or the program to develop Shiite insurgencies as part of their armed forces. If Sikes were thrown out on his ass, he would be what is known as persona non grata--unwanted, useless, shunned, and shit-out-of-luck no matter where he went in the world. As a man with no country or passport, he would be vulnerable to arrest by British authorities. And that would mean long years in a military prison.

He needed a drink bad, but here he was, deep in the Islamic world, where consumption of alcohol was considered a sin.

.

1900 HOURS

THE officers in the camp were quartered in tents like everyone else, except they had wooden slat floors so they didn't have to walk on the dirt inside their domiciles, like the lower-ranking men. Their furnishings were slightly better as well, with a cot, chair, small table with a drawer, and a simple frame wardrobe. There was also a net to keep insects out, stretched across the front of the canvas structure. The exception among the officers was Brigadier Shahruz Khohollah, who had a comfortably furnished bunker complete with a carpet.

Sikes shared the accommodations with his former mentor, Khalil Farouk, but the old friendship had faded quite a bit. The Brit no longer trusted his Arab companion, and kept his personal feelings about the current situation to himself.

Sikes sat in his chair, his feet upon the table, smoking a Turkish cigarette from a carton given him by the brigadier, when he noticed some commotion toward the main gate to the garrison. He walked to the tent opening and stepped outside. He could see a car drive up from the camp interior to meet another, larger sedan, which had just arrived. Soldiers scurried around to get out some luggage, while a man wearing safari-type garb made up of a khaki shirt, trousers, and desert boots stepped out of the vehicle. A gray felt Australian hat with the brim turned up on one side topped off his attire.

Sikes grinned to himself at the familiar individual he could recognize even at a distance. It was the arms dealer Harry Turpin, who had a contract with the Iranians to provide them with the latest in modern military weaponry, vehicles, and equipment.

"I wonder what that bluddy old bastard is up to," Sikes mused.

.

2100 HOURS

SIKES wasn't sleepy, and he lay on top of the covers listening to the deep breathing of his companion, Farouk, across the tent. Boredom pressed down so heavily on Sikes that he didn't care if a vehicle drove up and a couple of Iranian secret police goons got out and dragged him off to be summarily shot. In fact, he would welcome it.

Then a car did come to a stop outside the tent.

Sikes sat straight up, then relaxed at the sight of the man getting out. "Hello, Harry,"

he said. "I saw your arrival a coupla hours ago." He got to his feet and opened the net to let the Cockney enter the tent.

"'Ow are you, Archie, me lad?" Turpin said in his East End London accent. He nodded to Farouk, who had awakened. "And 'ow are you, Farouk, you ol' rascal?"

"I am very well, thank you," Farouk said. "It is so nice to be seeing you again."

"Oh, I'm good news for the two o' you," Turpin said. "You can bet your last shilling on that. Or pence or Euro or whatever the bluddy 'ell they're using in Blighty nowadays."

"Sit down, Harry," Sikes said. "Sorry, but we got no proper drinks to offer you."

"Sobriety is the scourge of Islam," Turpin said. He winked at Farouk. "No wonder you blokes are always looking for a fight."

"I admit I have enjoyed a whiskey now and then," Farouk confessed. "But here we have no choice. But we do have some canned fruit juice."

"I've got me own refreshments back in the bluddy tent, thank you," Turpin said, settling on the camp chair while Sikes and Farouk went back to sit down on their respective bunks.

Sikes leaned forward. "Wot d'you mean, you got good news for us, Harry?"

"Wot do I mean?" Turpin said with a wide grin. "I'll tell you, alright. I'm a vanguard, that's wot I am, see? I'm an 'arbinger of good news. I 'ave just made arrangements to bring in surplus East German tanks from Belarus, 'ey? Right straight to this camp. Also plenty o' small-arms ammo, shells for artill'ry and mortars and the like. And this deal also includes self-propelled cannons."