The Devil's Waters

CHAPTER 56





Jamie limped on two legs, LB on one, and neither Wally nor Quincy in slings could carry five bottles. Doc fetched all the beers.

Eleven Degrees North simmered after a hot day. April had lost its mildness, beginning the short slide into a Horn of Africa summer. Even with the sun down two hours ago, the patio’s concrete emitted warmth like a living thing under their boots, the metal chairs and table refusing to cool with the evening breeze off the gulf. LB wiped cold sweat from his beer on the back of his neck.

As usual after chow, the bar was crowded. One of the beauties of the place was that the men and women of the base did not clot by service. Sandy marine fatigues mingled with army-green camos. Pilots in flight suits, mechanics in overalls, anyone in T-shirts and shorts, all bought each other the next round, shared lighters for cigarettes. Japanese, French, Spanish, and British accents drifted past the PJs’ table. LB listened to those other conversations around him because none of the men with him were talking, just drinking.

Major Torres dropped by. She sat for five minutes of polite chat, making no mention of the mission, their bandages and slings, or Jamie’s crutches. Her presence at the table set the PJs on edge; Torres was the officer who’d started it all. Her smile at their wounds said everything for her; Torres knew less than any of them. All she could honor them with was blinks and that pretty smile.

Each of the PJs wanted to talk about what he’d done two days ago but couldn’t, not for solace or teasing. They wanted to recollect and honor Robey, a young man they hardly knew who’d laid his life down for them and whose sacrifice could never be spoken of. The memory of his death was ordered wiped away, no monument anywhere, reported as a training accident. Wally excused himself and the PRCC from the table.

Doc was the next to go. He bought one more round, delivered the bottles to the table. He dared the powers that be, saying, “These are for Robey,” then bid good night.

Quincy, Jamie, and LB finished their drinks silently. The bar’s lights didn’t blank out the African stars. All three leaned back in their chairs to study the pinpricks, using the Milky Way to stay at the table together a little longer without words. At last, with the bottles empty, Quincy rose to disappear into the crowd. He returned to tell Jamie he’d found them a ride back to the Barn. He stood one more bottle on the table, then the two left.

LB let the beer sit. He’d had enough, maybe more. He pushed it across the table when Wally sat.

Wally eased out of the sling to work his arm and slouch. LB gestured to the bottle.

“Go ahead.”

Wally waved it off, tired. “No, thanks. It’s yours.”

“I gave it to you.”

“I don’t want it. You drink it.”

LB lifted the beer. “That an order?”

“Don’t go there.”

“No, no. Don’t want to disobey an order.”

In one tip, LB guzzled half the bottle. Wally stretched his good arm for the second half, finishing it the same way. He set it down loudly, not between them but out of the way.

LB leaned on his good arm far across the table, less concerned with treason than loyalty. He checked to be sure no one else could hear him.

“Tell me you wouldn’t have f*cking shot me.”

Wally took the same look-around for listeners. “Quit whining. You talked me out of it.”

“Why’d you come back over here?”

“You were by yourself.”

“Now I can’t sit by myself?”

Wally flicked his wrist, the same gesture he used to reject the beer. He kept his voice low. “Next time I will. I’ll just shoot you.”

LB stood, not sure why. He got to his feet because when someone says something like that, a man stands. Wally was drunk, too, and didn’t mean it, but when he slid his arm into the sling, he glared like he did.

Rising also, Wally bumped the table. The bottle toppled to its side and rolled to the edge. Both men could not stop it. The bottle hit the concrete but didn’t break.

LB tapped his own chest, mimicking a bullet there. “Shoot me? Because of bullshit orders? We both got Jolly Green Giant feet tattooed on our asses. Period.”

Wally pointed. “Sit down.”

“Why?”

“Because I can carry two beers. Then we’ll settle this.” Wally wove into the crowd. The night was too early to have drunk this much. LB thought to leave, let Wally return to an empty table. They wouldn’t settle anything; they were going to argue and drink.

But LB refused to disappear.

He sat, not because he was told to.





GLOSSARY





AFRICOM. US Africa Command

BDU. Battle dress uniform

cows’ tails. Lanyards clipped to rings in the floor of a helicopter

C4I. Command, control, communications, computers, and intelligence

CCS. Command and control stations

CSAR. Combat search and rescue

CQB. Close quarters battle

CRO. Combat rescue officer

CTF 151. Combined Task Force 151, the international counterpiracy task force

DKAV or D=KAV. Calculation for freefall and canopy drift, using several factors, including wind velocity, altitude, and direction

EML. Electromagnetic launcher

ERQS. Expeditionary Rescue Squadron

Guardian Angels. Overall system name for US Air Force pararescue resources

IRTC. Internationally Recognized Transit Corridor

JOC. Joint Operations Center

IP. Isolated personnel

IR. Infrared

LRP. Long range patrol

LT. Lieutenant

LZ. Landing zone

ODA. Operational detachment alpha (formerly Green Berets)

PJ. Pararescue jumper

PR. Personnel recovery

PRCC. Personnel Recovery Coordination Cell

PTT. Press to talk

RAMZ. Rigged Alternate Method Zodiac

SERE. Survive, evade, resist, escape

SIE. Self-initiated elimination

SF. Special Forces

SSAS. Ship Security Alarm System

target. Jargon for “target”

TDY. Temporary duty assignment

technical. Armed pickup truck

UAV. Unmanned aerial vehicle

UKMTO Dubai. United Kingdom Maritime Trade Operations office in Dubai, UAE





Acknowledgments


For my several historical novels, I’ve been able to gather a great deal of the information I needed out of archives and nonfiction books, the recorded voices of the dead. But for a novel like this one, a contemporary tale, I’ve had to rely much more on the living.

At every step in my research, folks in and out of the military embraced both me and the notion of a novel about combat search and rescue (CSAR) on a massive cargo ship. I’ve spent time listening on three continents, four seas, and one ocean to men recounting their adventures, dangers, and wisdom. I’ve done my best to weave their vivid experiences into a story that not only is exciting but rings true. To a greater extent than any book I’ve written, this novel owes its character to the guidance and generosity of many advisers.

On Long Island, at Francis S. Gebreski Airport, the PJs and CROs of the USAF 103rd RQS showed me hospitality, trust, and just how cool and brave their lives are. While every man I spoke with contributed to my knowledge and admiration, the ones with whom I spent the most time were Maj. Scott Williams (the original LB), Lt. Colonel John McElroy, Lt. Colonel Shawn Fitzgerald, base Col. Tom Owens, and Captain Glyn Weir. Thanks to them, LB and Wally are alive and kicking each other.

In Djibouti, I was hosted by the pararescueman of the 58th RQS out of Nellis Air Force Base. While deployed with these men, I had better food, more fun, more excitement, and better sleeps than in any civilian days in recent memory. If I were a younger fellow, I would want to be like them. Since I cannot, some characters in my book (Quincy, Doc, Jamie) are. Thank you.

For two weeks, between Malta and Dubai, I was fortunate enough to sail on the CMA CGM Hydra in the company of Capt. Slavko “Dado” Malasic and his lovely wife, Valnea. Along with Chief Engineer Razvan Uta, they taught me everything I needed to know about massive cargo ships, traveling great distances on blue seas, Ping-Pong, Dracula, piloting a huge ship with a tiny wheel, and high spirits. I could not have conceived this book without them.

My agent Luke Janklow of Janklow & Nesbitt is a star in many rights. He, for being an impatient man, has shown me great restraint and faith. I’ve pledged not to vex him so greatly in the future, because he’s been proven right often enough. Clare Dippel, his assistant, has been a guiding light for the journey of this book. Between the two of them, I am as confident in my representation as I’ve ever been.

At Thomas & Mercer, editor Andy Bartlett and his team of professionals have amazed me with their competence and eagerness to make this book a success. As any author will tell you, it’s a deeply gratifying experience to work with folks who not only care about your book, but are talented and open-minded along the way.

As he has for all ten of my novels, my old friend Jim Redington, MD, helped with everything medical. The Public Affairs Office of the USAF at the Pentagon was a dream to work with.

Sherrie Najarian is not just a smart, classy beauty. She’s also a first-class editor. Like so many others, she added many things to this novel for which I receive credit.

—David L. Robbins





About the Author


Photo by Maj. John McElroy, USAF, 2010

David L. Robbins currently teaches advanced creative writing at VCU Honors College. His exceptional talent is displayed through ten action-packed novels, including the classic War of the Rats, Broken Jewel, The Betrayal Game, The Assassins Gallery, and Scorched Earth. An award-winning essayist and screenwriter, Robbins founded the James River Writers, an organization dedicated to supporting professional and aspiring writers. He also co-founded the Podium Foundation, which encourages artistic expression in Richmond’s high schools. Robbins extends his creative scope beyond fiction as an accomplished guitarist and student of jazz, pop, and Latin classical music. When he’s not writing, he’s often found sailing, shooting, weightlifting, and traveling the world. He lives in his hometown of Richmond, Virginia.