The Command (31 page)

It was already crowded. There were no empty berths once
Horn
was fitted into hers, farthest from land on the western face. A dry-cargo vessel swung nets of sacked grain or rice down to trucks. A cruise ship flying the Italian flag lay opposite; passengers in suits and abayas regarded their new neighbor with noncommittal stares. Only one old man, in suit and tie despite the heat, raised his hand to Dan, who tipped his hat across a hundred yards of space. Another warship, too, a modern frigate-type that flew the Rising Sun.

“Now secure from sea and anchor except for line handling detail… secure from navigational detail. The officer of the deck has shifted his watch to the port quarterdeck. Set the normal in-port watch. On deck, watch section three.”

AISHA had found a patch of shade on the west side of the customs office. A lieutenant in khakis nodded to her. She recognized him as the
legal officer from DESRON 50. They agreed it was hot, then stood in silence as the destroyer came into sight past Sitra. Men on the Japanese warship stared at her.

When the shore party stood back from the brow, the lieutenant gestured for her to go first. She faced the flag, then the petty officer. He looked her up and down. Maybe it
was
curious, she thought, seeing herself through his eyes: a black woman in a long pants suit and low heels, a beret on her head and a hijab she was wearing at the moment down around her neck like a scarf, a cell phone clipped to her purse, and in it, although he couldn't see it, the nine-millimeter. She held out the badge. “Aisha Ar-Rahim, NCIS. I'm here for the threat briefing.”

A woman stepped from beneath a shadowing awning. “Ar-Rahim? Claudia Hotchkiss. The exec.”

She must have looked startled, because Hotchkiss laughed. “They didn't tell you? We're mixed gender. An experiment.”

“I wish they had. It will present—differences in how people here are going to react.”

They shook hands, measuring each other. Hotchkiss was attractive, in a hard-nosed way. She gave off an aura of cold efficiency, but past that might be a friendly person. Aisha thought her uniform distinctly unflattering to a woman's shape, though.

“We're set up in the wardroom first, officers and chiefs. Then we'd like you to present again on the mess decks, if you'd care to do that. Or we can pass on what you give us.”

“I'd like to talk to the crew, too. Things they need to know before they go ashore. Especially with this—experiment.”

Hotchkiss undogged the door and ushered her through. Aisha braced herself for the chill, but inside it was little cooler than out. “We have a generator problem,” the exec said. “Now we're on shore power, it should cool off, but we had to secure the air-conditioning load.”

The wardroom was like any other. The captain was tall, with sandy hair. He shook her hand and told her he might have to leave early, he had calls ashore, but the XO would take care of her.

She was on. She shuffled her materials, trying to decide what to change, what to add. Cleared her throat.
“Ahlan wa-sahlan,”
she said. No one answered.

“That was ‘welcome' in Arabic, the language of Bahrain. I'm Aisha Ar-Rahim, Naval Criminal Investigative Service Field Office, Bahrain. Welcome to the best liberty port in the Gulf! You probably got an advance package from our morale and rec office. Camel rides, tours, golf,
beaches, diving. A lot of nightlife downtown. Great shopping. The people here are on the whole welcoming. Almost everybody knows some English. But as is true everywhere, there are things you need to bear in mind.”

She shifted into automatic and went through the mores of moving through an Arab society. What not to do. Topics to avoid. A hand popped up. “Question?”

One of the women. “Will we have to cover up the way their women do?”

“No. Bahrain's not Saudi or Iran. You'll see the full-bodied cloaks, the black jilbab, but for you it's neither required nor expected.” She touched her hijab. “A scarf's useful. When I go into a mosque, I veil.”

“You're a Moslem?”

“I'm an observant Muslim. For the women aboard, I recommend the same guidelines we require on the base. No bare midriffs, no cleavage, no shorts. Pants or skirts below the knee are acceptable. Bare arms are OK on Western women, though you won't see Bahraini women in short sleeves. On the beach, conservative one-piece suits.”

She went on to the security tips: be aware of your surroundings at all times; keep a low profile; stay low-key in dress, language, music, and actions. Be careful in telephone conversations.

“The island's relatively crime free, but don't walk alone at night. Stay in well-traveled, well-lighted areas. Don't park on the side roads or parking lots near the base.

“Before you leave the Activity, look at yourself. Can someone tell you're in the U.S. military? The locals wear brands like Gap and Nike, but leave your ship's ball caps, military belt buckles behind. Avoid large gatherings, especially near the mosques after evening prayers. Remember Friday's the equivalent of your Christian Sunday.”

A tough-looking chief with a stubbled head wanted to know about unrest. She said most resentment was directed at the island's government, rather than Americans, but she still advised staying out of the Shi'a neighborhoods.

“Are you Shi'a?” someone else wanted to know. She parried that and went on to warn them about local drug dealers and how not to get ripped off when you bought a rug. She left her card, English on one side, Arabic on the other, with Hotchkiss, and told her to call her cell phone if they needed her.

…

HAVING a drink with the guys on the team was OK if he ran into them ashore, but Marchetti didn't want to actually go steaming with them. So he went down to the goat locker after the brief.

“There's only one place I want to go, and that's anyplace that's got a bar,” somebody was saying as he came in.

“This guy in Jubail gave me a card, the carpets at this place will bug your eyes out. Persian. The good stuff. Tear the label off and there's no way Customs can tell.”

He'd been here before and wasn't that excited about it, but a drink sounded good. He hadn't had one since Palma, and what he was hearing from the radio chief, Gerhardt, was that after they got their repairs done, they'd be heading up toward Iraq.

He went through into the berthing area and found Gerhardt and Andrews, the cryppie, getting dressed. They planned to start at Murphy's Pub, then hit the Ramada, then later on check in at Shwarma Alley. He showered and shaved, then lathered his head. At the mirror he pulled the razor over it with light careful strokes. Very gingerly; there was a place at the back where if he wasn't careful he'd cut the shit out of himself. He put on slate Dockers and a Harley buckle with glass jewels and a short-sleeved shirt with red and blue stripes and then his boots.

DAN slumped on the sofa in his in-port cabin, looking blankly at the equally blank television, drinking a diet Coke out of the fridge. Blair wasn't due in till five, at Bahrain International, on the far side of the city.

Someone from the staff should have been on the pier to meet them. Strange there hadn't been. He'd have to pay his calls, starting with the DESRON commander. He'd ask there if it'd be kosher to call on CO-MIDEASTFOR.

He was throwing his civvies and kit into an overnight bag when someone tapped at the door.

The lieutenant introduced himself in an apologetic manner as Palzkill. Dan found out why when he handed over the envelope. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, sir.”

In accordance with Paragraph 4 of Part V,
Manual for Courts-Martial,
he was notified the command was considering imposing nonjudicial punishment on him. The alleged offenses were violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, Article 128, assault, and Article 134,
conduct of a nature to bring discredit on the armed services. He had the right to refuse imposition of nonjudicial punishment. If he did, charges could be referred to trial by court-martial by summary, special, or general court-martial.

He looked up to see the lieutenant still standing, and waved at the settee. “Sit down. Want a soda? So, you're a JAG?”

A JAG was a navy lawyer, assigned to the Judge Advocate General's office. “Yessir,” Palzkill mumbled, perching on the edge. “No, sir, nothing, thanks.”

Dan turned it over and read the back. Nothing there he hadn't seen before, though it was unpleasant to read his name on it. “What exactly is this about?”

“I understand your boarding party killed a man on one ship. Two of your own sailors died on another.”

“It's dangerous work.”

“Yes, sir, evidently.”

“And what have you got to tell me?”

“Well, Captain, you have to decide if you want to accept nonjudicial punishment, or go to a court-martial. Then you have to decide if you want to request a personal appearance before the commodore, or you can waive that—”

“I'll appear.”

“Then you have the following rights: To be informed of your rights under Article 31(b), UCMJ; to be informed of the information against you relating to the offenses alleged; to be accompanied by a spokesperson. To be permitted to examine documents or physical objects against you; to present matters in defense or extenuation; to have witnesses attend the proceeding, if their statements will be relevant and they are reasonably available. A witness is not reasonably available if the witness requires reimbursement by the United States for any cost incurred in appearing, cannot appear without unduly delaying the proceedings, or, if a military witness, cannot be excused from other important duties. And to have the proceedings open to the public unless the commanding officer determines they should be closed for good cause.”

“Okay,” Dan said, taken aback at the rapid monotone in which this had been rattled off. “How about this. I don't want a lawyer; I accept nonjudicial punishment; and I want to appear in person. My witnesses are my exec and the men from the boarding and search party.”

“Sure you don't want help with this, sir?”

“Do COs usually have counsel?”

“Well… not usually, sir.”

“It's taken as a sign of guilt?”

“I can't comment on that one way or the other, sir.”

“Then let's skip it. But thanks for offering.” He signed the form. “When's the appearance?”

“The commodore's in Riyadh right now, but he wanted to get to this as soon as he gets back. I'd say two or three days.”

“And how formal is it going to be?”

“I don't think it'll be too formal. He doesn't like that. If you don't want counsel, probably it'll just be like a sit-down meeting between you and him. Maybe with somebody from COMIDEASTFOR there. They're the ones who preferred the charges. He'll read the charges, you'll present your defense, he'll make his decision there and then.”

Dan looked at the paper again, wanting to ask whether he was likely to be coming back to the ship afterward or not. Finally he just handed it back. “I guess I'll wait to hear from you when he wants to see me. Do you get a lot of these?”

“Article 128s, sir? No, sir. You're the first one on my watch.”

That didn't sound good, but he resolved not to obsess about it. In fact, the prospect of some big Crime and Punishment scene didn't bother him as much as it would have years earlier. Either he was gaining some perspective, or else just getting jaded. “You say the commodore's in Riyadh. Anybody else I ought to check in with?”

Palzkill suggested the base commander, a Captain Fetrow, and maybe the CO of the Shore Intermediate Maintenance Activity, they'd be doing whatever repairs
Horn
had scheduled. Dan asked if he'd walk him over, and Palzkill said he'd be happy to.

Hotchkiss was on the midships quarterdeck when Dan got there toting his overnight. He'd asked her to stay aboard while he was gone, at least for the first day. He gave her the number of the Regency Intercontinental. Since that was where they'd met, he figured Blair couldn't fault it.

“We need some decisions before you vanish,” Claudia said.

“Be with you in a minute,” he said to Palzkill. “Shoot,” he told Hotchkiss.

She led him away from earshot of the lawyer. “This boat you told Casey to get in the water.”

“What about it?”

“He tells me it's a violation of Bahraini law to have weapons aboard. He said he advised you of that and you told him to hide them under a tarp.”

“Correct. I also told him to keep bores clear but full mags handy.” Dan looked around the sunny, shining water of the basin, at the Japanese can, at what looked like a ferry passing to the eastward.

“Don't you think that's a little … alarmist?”

“I'd call it being prepared. But I'll talk to the base staff, get their cut on it. What else?”

“The replacement generator.”

“It's here, isn't it?”

“Lin called over as soon as the phone lines were connected. Yeah, it's here. The question is, how soon do you want it in? It'll take about eight hours to get the old one out and eight more to get the new one in.”

Dan thought about installing the generator versus letting the snipes have the night off. But they could get orders to sea again anytime. He told her reluctantly to swap out and test it as soon as possible, then grant additional liberty for the work center concerned. “Anything else?”

“We had a policy overnight stays, hotels, required a special request chit.”

“If you mean did I put in a chit to stay at the Regency—”

“No, sir, I didn't mean you.” She unclipped a flimsy from her clipboard. “This is from Mr. Richardson and Ms. McCall.”

Dan looked it over. The strike officer and one of the helo pilots wanted to get a room at the Sheza Tower together.

“You didn't want a no-dating policy. I went along with you. Then I got this.”