David Bruns: Weapons of Mass Deception

“What? You can’t name any, McHugh? You are a worthless piece of shit, McHugh. Why don’t you just wash out now and save the taxpayers some money?”

“No, sir!” Why don’t you eat shit and die, you fucking loser?

“Name all the classes of destroyers in the Fleet, McHugh.”

Brendan took a deep breath, ready to belt out another “I’ll find out, sir,” when he heard her. Liz’s voice, high-pitched, musical with always the hint of a laugh behind it, floated down the passageway. “Go Navy, sir. Beat Army, sir.”

As fourth-class midshipmen, or plebes, they were required to double-time through the corridors of Bancroft Hall, make only right-angle turns, and to “sound off” at every one. Her voice was getting louder and timed with her footfalls as she squared her corners. She was coming toward them. Brendan held back a sigh. She was coming to save his ass — again.

No, Liz, I can handle this dickhead, just stay away.

She appeared at the end of the passageway, a slim figure made smaller by her dark uniform. She squared the corner to face them, yelling out loud enough for Fermit to hear. “Beat Navy, sir!”

Had it not been more serious, Brendan might have burst out laughing. Fermit’s face went white, his jaw hanging open as Liz trotted down the polished hall toward them. As a plebe at the Naval Academy, everything— everything —centered on beating West Point at any event where the two schools competed. A plebe shouting “Beat Navy” was an insult akin to saying your mother had sexual relations with farm animals. Fermit’s mouth worked open and shut a few times as Liz reached them.

“Plebe halt!” he screamed at her. Liz froze. Fermit blinked at Brendan as if wondering why he was there. “Shove off, McHugh. You, Soroush”—his trembling finger wavered at Liz—“up against the wall. Name all the classes of destroyers in the Fleet. Go.” He bent over so his face was right in Liz’s ear when he screamed at her.

Liz refused to meet Brendan’s eye as he pushed off the wall and squared the corner. He could hear her rattling off the names of destroyers as he trotted away. He checked the clock. Twenty minutes until formation. He felt bad about leaving her, but there probably wasn’t a question Fermit could think up that Liz couldn’t answer.

He was almost at his door. A quick shower, a fresh shirt, and a review of some likely quiz questions before the evening meal were what he needed to clear his head. He would use that mnemonic trick Liz had taught him.

“Plebe halt.”

Oh shit, not again. He froze.

“Come in here, McHugh.”

Double shit.

The voice floated out from an open doorway to his left. He did a military turn toward it, ready for the worst.

“Don’t just stand there, McHugh. Get in here.”

Brendan trotted to the door and rapped his knuckles on the jamb. “Midshipman Fourth Class McHugh, requesting permission to enter—”

“For Christ’s sake, will you get the fuck in here, McHugh? And stop shouting at me.” Mark’s black-stockinged feet were propped up on his desk and he was stripped to a white T-shirt and gym shorts. His blue eyes were warm, adding to the power of his smile.

“At ease,” he said.

Brendan went to parade rest, his hands crossed in the small of his back, senses on full alert. Mark’s approach seemed relaxed enough, and he had a reputation among the plebes of the company as a “cool” upperclassman — i.e., not an asshole — but Brendan had never spoken to him.

“For fuck’s sake, McHugh, relax. I’m not going to bite your goddamned head off. I’ll leave that to dicks like Fermit.” He spit out the second-classman’s name like a bad taste in his mouth.

Brendan, still wary, allowed his hands to drop to his sides and his shoulders to ease down a notch. Be careful — this is how they get you.

Mark chewed his lip. “Fair enough,” he said. “You don’t trust me, and that’s probably a good thing for your own survival. You’re a hockey player, right?”

Brendan nodded. “Yes, sir,” he replied in a normal voice.

“I’m recruiting for the sailing team. How about you crew for me in the off-season?”

Brendan’s eyes must have widened because Mark laughed out loud and let the legs of his chair hit the polished floor. “No tricks, McHugh. I’m on the level. I need a crew and I think you’d do a good job. Plus, it gets you away from the Hall for a few overnights and weekends… away from that dickhead down there.” He cocked his head toward the door to the hallway, where they could both hear Fermit screaming at Liz. His voice had reached a hysterical pitch, probably because she had answered all his stupid questions and he was frustrated.

Brendan nodded at Mark. “I’ll do it.”

“Good choice, McHugh,” Mark laughed. “Shove off, I’m going to catch a catnap before dinner.”

Brendan turned toward the door and placed his uniform cap on his head.

“Oh, and McHugh,” Mark called to him. “Bring your friend, what’s her name — Soroush? I can use her, too.”

Brendan blew out his breath. Crewing for Mark had made his plebe year at the Academy bearable. It gave him and Liz a place to get away from the Hall for a few hours or a weekend. He owed Mark everything.

Screw the funeral. He would remember Mark the way he would have wanted to be remembered: sitting in the stern of the yawl, feet up, blue eyes hidden behind his Ray-Bans, a smile on his face from the last joke he had shouted out to them. Not as a closed casket.

Of course, all that was Mark before 9/11, the day that changed them all. Mark was a Marine first lieutenant when it happened, and he was part of the first wave of troops that entered Iraq. Overnight he went from carefree Mark to Marine Mark. The once-playful blue eyes turned the color of ice and the jokes became less frequent.

Brendan looked over his shoulder. Liz was hunched over a chart in the stern, her legs braced against the bulkhead for stability. She had been looking at the same chart for twenty minutes, a pencil loose in her grip.

“Hey, Liz, you okay?”

She raised her head, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses, but Brendan could see the tracks down her cheeks. The wind blew her short, dark hair across her face, but she made no attempt to push it away. She smiled at him. Well, she tried to smile.

It’s okay, Lizzie. I miss him, too. That’s what he should have said, but instead he plastered his face with a wide grin. “Any idea where we are?” he asked. That was Mark’s favorite line.

This time she gave him a real smile. “Does it really fucking matter? We’re not in the Hall, are we?” They both laughed — for real — but Brendan felt the sting in his eyes again.

Her face froze. Liz stood, her finger pointing to the starboard side of the boat. “Man overboard,” she screamed. Brendan saw a flash of red hair whip by the gunwale.

The crew reacted instinctively. As Liz kept her finger pointed at the target, Brendan brought the thirty-six-foot yawl around. The crew of eight called to one another, and Brendan took a mental tally of the missing voice. He needn’t have bothered. From the red hair, he already knew it was Riley.

He swung the helm to bear on Liz’s pointing finger, fuming to himself. The mainsail was down in heaps on the deck and he started the engine. Once the nearby boats saw that Hornet was able to recover their man, they kept their sails full and stayed their courses. Brendan watched the regatta flash by them.

Midshipman Fourth Class Donald Riley was his and Liz’s attempt to pay it forward. Just like Mark had done with them, when he and Liz were named co-captains of Hornet , they agreed they would pick a plebe from their company to join their crew. It would be their way to give back, their memorial to Mark’s generosity of spirit.