Emile and the Dutchman (6 page)

"Very good, Cadet Candidate von du Mark, very good. There's nothing in the honor code that forbids a cadet from standing mute." He held out a palm. "Oh, and I'll have your phone—we don't need you crying on your mommy's shoulder.
Now
."

Reluctantly, I handed it over. He set it gently on the floor and then ground it under his heel.

"Get on the bus."

The Dutchman chuckled. "Damn, but this Brubaker sounds like my kind of person. He rode you hard, I take it?"

I nodded. "Fair to medium. Not just me, but all three of my roommates. Drove Gardner right out of the Navy—"

"Right out? I thought the deal is that if you drop out of the Naval Academy, the sailorboys can still hold you to two years enlisted service."

"If they want to; in practice, they only do if you don't have any pull. But he really
broke
Gardner; the poor bastard was carried off on a stretcher."
He spent four years in an asylum, Major,
I thought.
It isn't funny.

"Maybe he wasn't the Navy type after all."

"Permission to speak bluntly, sir?"

"Sure." The Dutchman nodded. "I take it you don't agree."

"I've heard that bullshit ever since my first day as a plebe. I didn't believe it then, and I don't believe it now, Major.
Anybody
can be broken by the right kind of pressure—maybe, with a bit of time and patience, Gardner could have been one hell of a good officer, maybe even a fine captain."

The Dutchman snorted. "You don't think command is all that big a deal, do you?"

"Not necessarily." I shrugged. "And I don't think that riding someone until he breaks will ever help him exercise it."

The Dutchman didn't answer. "Go on."

"It went on for what felt like forever. There was the nonsense about the cow and leather and the Contact Service, and what a plebe was. Now, that was the normal sort of hazing that goes on at the Naval Academy. But Brubaker had some extras in mind for me. . . ."

III

I was in full uniform, book bag tucked under my left arm to keep my right arm free for saluting, heading down the quad to class. My uniform was absolutely immaculate, a spare pair of heavily shined shoes tucked into my book bag because earlier there had been a light rain and the water on the walk was certain to spot the shoes I was wearing.

I was taking special precautions to be spotless for this class: Lieutenant Commander Farrell was a stickler for clean uniforms.

I smiled inside. You have to keep the smile inside: an upperclassman might—
will
—notice a plebe with a grin on his face. And you don't want the upperclassmen to notice you; the idea is to try to get through the first year doing a Claude Rains imitation.

But I was excited about the class: Rotary Wing Familiarization. With a bit of luck, Farrell would let me have a turn at the controls; at the very least, I'd get in some time off the ground.

My feet flew out from underneath me, and I landed flat on my back in a puddle.

"Good afternoon, scumsucker," Brubaker said, smiling down at me. "And be more careful next time."

I leaped to my feet. The filthy water had soaked me from the back of my neck to my ankles.

"Go ahead, plebe. Please. Assaulting an upperclassman?"

* * *

"Chickenshit." The Dutchman smirked. "What's the penalty for assault? A couple of weeks in jail?"

I shook my head. "Military discipline, remember—court-martial."

"You could have run into him off grounds."

"I might have, if I'd ever been
allowed
off grounds. But even so, I wouldn't have. Try that and the upperclassmen'll run you right out of the Academy. At least with Brubaker bullying me I had a bit of sympathy coming from some quarters."

The Dutchman snorted. "Yeah. Sympathy."

"Such as it was."

"You were saying that he was riding all three of your roommates. One of the others was this asshole buddy of yours?"

I gave the Dutchman a long, hard look. It was intended to say, There are some lines you had better not cross. Major. It's been tried before.

Norfeldt shook his head. "Not really, Emmy. How about the fourth roommate?"

"Ortega took an upperclassman's suggestion and transferred out. Of the room, that is."

IV

Phil Ortega spread his hands. "I am very sorry, my friends. And if you ask me to change my mind . . ."

Manny Curdova shook his head as he sprawled back on his bed, smoothing his uniform blouse underneath him to avoid leaving wrinkles. Technically, lying on the bed between 0600 and 2200 was a violation, but Phil wouldn't tell—an officer and a gentleman doesn't go out of his way to squeal on his comrades.

Besides, if Brubaker wanted to find something to punish Manny or me for, he would, regardless of whether or not we had violated a rule.

"Maybe there's an easier solution. Hey, Manny," I said idly. "How good are you with a knife? Think you could put a blade in the bugger's ten-ring?"

He chuckled thinly. "Actually, I can hit a flying sherry cork at twenty paces."

"Serious?"

"Close. But, as I understand it, the Navy would be likely to . . . frown on our killing the pig."

True. Our actual policy was to keep our noses clean enough to avoid trouble from Tac officers and benign upperclassmen, but not to bother doing anything to avoid the attentions of Brubaker and the few other uppers who made a hobby of finding new and interesting ways to harass plebes in general and us in particular.

Ortega frowned. "I repeat: I will stay, if you ask me."

"No need," Manny said, slipping back into his thick Castilian accent. "I get the feeling that it isn't you that Brubaker wants." He shrugged. "You're not a
ricon,
after all."

"Or a smartass," I put in, taking out my ruler and measuring the placement of my compboard. Its edge was precisely six centimeters from the edge of another one of the Navy's contradictions; the high-tech compboard and a battered but decent voicewriter sat on an unpowered wooden desk.

Ortega finished rolling up and tying his mattress, then hoisted it to his shoulder with one hand and picked up one of his Val-paks with the other. Manny and I each grabbed one with our left hands, leaving our right hands free for saluting.

I swung the door open and stepped out into the hall. It was 2030 or so, well into the study hour. Down the immaculate white hall, each door was ajar at precisely forty-five degrees, plebes all sitting at their desks and studying, their commitment aided by the two guards, one at each end of the hall.

The walls were whitewashed wood: I'd whitewashed them myself, once each weekend in place of Sunday liberty. Even the cracks between the floor panels were clean—that was Brubaker's usual assignment to Manny and his toothbrush. Nice fellow, Brubaker.

We walked down the hall three abreast, pausing at the guard table to drop our burdens to the floor, come to attention, and salute.

The guard was a senior cadet sergeant named Morphy. Not quite as much of a jerk as the rest, but not a prince among men, either. He had a certain affection for a phrase that I don't particularly enjoy hearing:

"Puke it out, lady," he said, clearly bored.

I was senior, for the moment; my most recent full demerit was three days old. That's sort of like being senior by being the one busted first—it doesn't exactly get you the red-carpet treatment.

"Sir. Plebes von du Mark, Curdova, and Ortega requesting permission to leave the floor. Purpose: to move Plebe Ortega's belongings down to his new billet on the fifth floor. Sir."

"The cow, Mister—" He caught himself. "Never mind, Mark. Leave it be. Sure, sure, permission granted." He scribbled out a pass. "Take a couple of hours—that might keep you out of Brubaker's way for a while. Asshole," he snorted.

While Brubaker's rank was higher than Morphy's, Morphy was a senior, which put him beyond Brubaker's authority in all but strictly line-of-duty situations.

Morphy shook his head. "Transferred in with soph status last year. No fucking plebe year for him, but he's got to—never mind. Tell me, any idea why he's got it in for you in particular?"

"Sir, no, sir. Unless it's because I'm a rich sonofabitch and a know-everything smartass and barracks lawyer to boot, sir."

Morphy's eyes twinkled. "I guess that could be it. Oh—and you can forget about your usual way of spending Sunday leave this weekend. On your way back, you might want to check out the posting for the next survival drop."

I didn't say anything.

He sighed again. "Okay, you've probably got a question—puke it out, puke it out."

"Sir, any particular reason, sir?"

"Yeah. It's on for the weekend—you and Curdova, and guess who your upperclassman instructor is."

I shuddered. "No. Please. Not Cadet Lieutenant Brubaker, sir?" '

"Right on the money, plebe. And the first word out your mouth is
sir,
scumbag. Give me thirty, then grab your bags and doubletime your ass down the stairs.
Now,
plebe."

The Dutchman raised an eyebrow. "Survival drop,
singular!"

"It's the Navy, Major—and it was just more bullshit."

"Oh. You think that survival training isn't relevant to Navy officers?"

"
Sure
it is, Major. Really important. Just like it is to be able to spurt out a memorized definition of leather. Makes as much sense as an officer being really good at whitewashing walls. Makes every bit as much goddam sense as making a man with an Expert Pilot's license—with prop, rotary, jet,
and
transsonic validations, sir, even then—go through familiarization training on a Piper."

"Well . . ."

"Survival training doesn't make sense, Major. Not for a Navy officer; they're not Contact Service. What are the chances of a Navy man—flier or not—ever having to live off the land?"

He snickered at that. "You got a point, Emmy. They actually made you take beginning flying?"

"Yeah."

He looked down at his compboard. "I see you got extra credit for teaching flying at Alton."

"After they had a senior IP check me out—thoroughly—I was detailed as a student instructor in airframe, rotary-wing, and advance RW—everything offered except combat tactics, transsonic, and skipshuttle. The Service occasionally isn't totally fucked up."

The Dutchman snickered again. "Ah. The soul of reason and grace, that we are. This survival drop where everything hit the fan?"

"Yeah."

"Go on."

V

Now, as I understand it, parachuting in has been obsolete for a couple of centuries, even for the military Not that they call it parachuting in. "Vertical envelopment" is the technical term for jumping in.

That's what they call it. I call it stupid. Anywhere you can parachute in, a copter can get you in just as fast or faster, and bring you down with more equipment.

Maybe I shouldn't complain. After all, vertical envelopment has been obsolete for only a couple of centuries; the reason that we're taught close-order drill is that the Greeks and Romans found a phalanx a handy thing to have around, and—never mind that there hasn't been any use for it since pikemen were put up against horse-borne cavalry—it might come in handy again.

All of which may be just a rationalization for the fact that from the moment I set foot on the Zeus I was slightly nauseous. My stomach really started heaving when Manny Curdova finished checking the straps that held my chute to my back and my pack to my front.

Brubaker was grinning, of course, which didn't make things any better. I would have loved to get the bastard in the right-hand seat of a trainer—if you know what you're doing, you can make anyone vomit.

Finally, we were over the drop zone. The red light over the door went yellow, and we checked our altimeters and oxygen masks. And then the jumpmaster clipped the releases to the line, and we waited for the green light.

All too soon, it flashed.

Manny went first. His face a bit pale inside his faceplate, he braced himself for a moment in the open door and then kicked out, his static line paying out for a long moment before going slack, whipping in the wind.

Me next. At the door, I looked down at about twelve klicks of air, and decided to quit. There's a difference between looking at that much air through a windscreen and a faceplate, honest.

"Whatsa matter, rich boy?" Brubaker's voice whispered in my ear, "Chickening out?"

To hell with it.
"Sir, yes
, sir.
As a matter of fact—"

"Shut up. Be ready for a full inspection by the time I'm down."

Something connected with my butt, booting me out into nowhere.

I turned and reached, but all I caught was air.

It was a long way to the desert sands. I vomited all the way down.

"Barfing seems to be a way of life for you, Emmy."

'I've got a sensitive stomach. You want me to go on, or not?"

"Go on."

VI

By the time Brubaker had made it down, both Manny and I had our gear neatly arranged on our clear plastic tarpaulins, as the bastard had ordered. Each of us had:

One parachute, together with rigging and quick-release straps

A first-aid kit, complete with drugs

One plastic-handled survival knife

Five one-liter plastic water containers

Eighteen wooden matches, their heads coveted with paraffin

One fire kit

Two two-meter lengths of clear plastic tubing

One mylar tarp

One clear plastic tarp

Eight mealbricks, each fully dehydrated and sealed in plastic

One plastic cup

One instruction manual, sealed in plastic

Everything was sealed in plastic. Plastic is the Navy's unofficial mascot, sort of like the way the Service has olive drab.

I didn't know why they kept the instruction manual sealed for a desert drop—it's supposed to be for jungle environments, where the main problem is to delay everything rotting.

Brubaker smiled as he swaggered over, his own kit properly slung, his chute tucked under his arm.

"First thing, rich boys, is to make sure that things don't go too easy for you." Over our cut-off protests, he scooped up both of our chutes and instruction manuals and piled them on top of his chute, several meters away on the hot sands.

Digging into his pack, he came out with a small plastic vial, lit its fuse, and tossed it onto the pile.

The chutes and packs burned with a thick black smoke; Manny and I worked our way around so that the wind was at our backs.

"Good. Now, you two have a problem," Brubaker said. "We're not due for pickup for three days. You need, in this heat, at least a liter of water per day."

And we each had five liters. Did he really think we were going to let him take the water away from us?

I looked at Manny. He gave an expansive Latin shrug, as though to say, I'd
rather get a million demerits than die of thirst.

Good man. I walked over to my gear and began to pack it, Manny following me.

"Easy, there, Mark."

I stood up straight, gesturing at Manny to keep packing. "Sir. Plebe von du Mark requests permission to speak informally,
sir
."

"Granted."

"You're not confiscating our water. No way."

Brubaker smiled. "Agreed."

I'd never seen anyone move so quickly. One moment, he stood there empty-handed; the next he had a wiregun in his hands, and had drilled through all our water bottles.

As we stood there, shocked, our water drained out into the sand. I leaped over to the containers and tried to hold the holes shut with my fingers, but there were just too many of the fine holes; all I got was fingers full of wet sand.

I drew my knife and stood.

"Don't even think about it, rich boy." Brubaker smiled at me. "In the field, assaulting a superior officer doesn't buy you a court-martial, not when the officer in question has a sidearm. It buys you about two centimeters of wire in the head."

I didn't think that he'd actually shoot us out of malice, but he might in self-defense. I clipped the knife to my belt.

"It's really simple, rich boys. Between your belt canteens and what you have there, you can improvise a water source." He snickered. "Matter of fact, I order you to do so."

Neither holstering his pistol nor taking his eyes off us, he reached over his shoulder and pulled a tube out of his pack. He sipped on it as he seated himself on the ground.

"Don't worry about me," he said around the tube, patting his pack. "I've got a nice ten-liter jug in here. I'll be curious to see if you can do it. Or if you die of thirst."

The Dutchman snickered. "That's an easy one—improvising a water source from what you had there? A baby could do it."

"Right.
If
he knew the trick. Which we didn't. Either of us."

He nodded. "I take it you hadn't read the manual."

"We hadn't had our
hands
on the manual until we were handed our kits upon boarding the damn plane, and we hadn't been briefed, other than that we were due for a survival drop. I'd heard about some of the others—they were no big deal, nothing like the Spring Break in Swaziland they put us through at Alton, just a few days of minimalistic camping. Hell, Rivers and Edwards and their instructor ended up on some Polynesian island, complete with coconuts and a freshwater spring."

"Then again, they didn't have Brubaker as their upper-classman instructor."

"True."

"So, what did you do?"

"The obvious. We used our clear plastic tarps as groundcloths, and pitched our mylar ones as lean-tos to keep the heat off. I remembered reading somewhere about how the desert sand cooled off a few inches down, so we tried digging a bit. Basically, we just sat there for twenty-four hours."

"And the water?"