Leon Uris - A God In Ruins

“So, it’s you and Colonel Dorothy, eh? Getting hitched, Jeremiah?”

“If the Marine Corps wanted me to have another wife, they’d of issued me one. Cut to the chase, Keith, but let me advise you in advance—after Nam it took me six months to be able to write my name. Who sent you, Keith?”

“The President.”

“Well, you’ve got my attention.”

“As well as Defense, State, Joint Chiefs, and the CIA,” Brickhouse continued. “I didn’t assign you to El Toro to play with the SCARAB by accident.”

“Any damned fool could tell you we had to develop a rapid strike force. The SCARAB is interesting. Helicopter turned airplane turned helicopter and carrying more firepower than anything ten times its size, with the exception of nuclear weapons.”

“It’s more than that,” the commandant said. “Jeremiah,

we’re heading into an era of an entirely different kind of warfare, vomit warfare.”

“Like?”

“World terrorism. We must get a leg up. This Palestine Liberation Organization is just the tip of a gigantic iceberg. Playing by no rules and operating covertly, they can multiply like roaches. Every dingy little organization with a beef will feel free to call themselves Heroes of God on Tuesday and blow up a civilian aircraft and rename themselves Liberation Unit Twenty on Wednesday and take a classroom of kids as hostages. The bad news is that the Warsaw Pact nations and the Islamic states are giving them sanctuary, training camps, money, diplomatic passports, weapons. Thus far terrorist activity has been outside of the States. At the moment there is no way we can make the American public believe we are not immune. But something’s going to happen inside America, and sooner rather than later. It’s up to us to have something in the ready.”

“Let me finish this for you,” Duncan interrupted. “The President wants me to create a small, secret, lightning strike force. Once we identify a perpetrator of a terrorist act, we will hit a preplanned target in reprisal.”

“You heard that from you, not me,” the commandant retorted. “How do you think the SCARAB would fit in?”

Jeremiah did not have to stretch far to grasp that one. “The SCARAB could be a big part of the Marines’ future.”

“We’re thinking of ordering five hundred of them,” Brickhouse retorted.

Jeremiah had enjoyed playing with the SCARAB in the tightly guarded hangar. It brought him back to a first love, aviation. He had already surmised what the craft’s future role might be. The notion of marrying a lady colonel and retiring did not entirely appeal to him. The alternative was staying in the Corps.

“The SCARAB has potential. To do the rapid-force mission I want something faster, lighter, and with high-end missiles. I could soup the engines up. I’d want a titanium wing and install the new TAD laser bomb-guidance system,” he said.

“I’ll get the funding,” the commandant said quickly.

“I didn’t say I’d do it, Keith. I said I’d think it over.”

The commandant knew that either Jeremiah would agree or he would have to be retired. He waited.

“I want to build my own team,” Jeremiah snapped, “and I don’t want a

fucking congressional oversight committee buggering me—“

“Deal,” Keith interrupted.

“I’ll give you a list of the key people I need,” Jeremiah said, already caught up in the venture.

“If we’re staying top secret, it has to be an all-volunteer force,” the commandant said.

“Sure, fine. I’ll volunteer them,” Jeremiah answered.

Master Technical Sergeant Quinn Patrick O’Connell was the man to see at the El Toro helicopter command. He received new craft, oversaw electronic installations, personally ran all serviced ‘copters through their test drills, kept the manuals up to date, and pulled the best safety record in the Corps.

Quinn’s relationship with Major General Jeremiah Duncan formally began when the general’s personal ‘copter pilot took ill. He knew Dogbreath was playing around with some kind of flying egg crate in Q Hangar and ‘coptered often to Camp Pendleton, a skip down the coast and over to a semi-mysterious Marine Corps facility near Barstow in the Mojave Desert.

They flew together so often, a confidence between the two came naturally and was cemented when Quinn flew the boss to Vegas for a rendezvous with Colonel Dorothy.

Shortly after General Brickhouse’s visit, Jeremiah called the commander of El Toro. “I need to borrow a ‘copter pilot for a month or so. Send me Sergeant O’Connell and put him on detached duty.”

“I can’t spare him for a month, Jeremiah,” the commander retorted. “He’s key personnel.” “Then I’ll appreciate it doubly.” “Don’t you Dogbreath me!”

“Shall we put this down as a request and not an order?” “I hear you, I hear you.”

“Sir!” Quinn snapped, coming to attention before Duncan’s desk.

“Sit down, son.”

Oh, Christ, Quinn thought as the general reached out to shake his hand, I’m going to get my pockets picked.

“My ‘copter pilot has the crud. I’m going to need you for a month or so. Detached duty has been cleared. I trust you have no objections.”

“I understand your words, a month, but I don’t understand how long ‘or so’ might be.”

“Or so means or so.”

“I’m checking out a half dozen new men. A couple of them are real joy-stick freaks. Let me pick you a gung-ho man,” Quinn said.

“I don’t think so.”

“Can I have four or five days to brief the new NCO at the ‘copter compound?” Quinn asked.

“Take two.”

“Sir, uh .. .”

“What, son, what!”

“On your ‘copter, sir, I’d like to select the copilot.”

“In actual fact,” Jeremiah answered, “I’ll copilot.”

“Ohh.”

“I note a drop of enthusiasm in your voice,” the general grumbled.

Receiving no answer, he bellowed, “Well!”

“General Duncan, this here Corps holds you in the same reverence as Joe

Foss, Marian Carl, and Pappy Boyington’s Black Sheep. Sir, it was a

glorious day in our aviation history when you became the first American ace in a single day. However, General, World War II ended thirty-five years ago, and with these new systems you couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a bass fiddle.”

Duncan’s voice went from grumble to gurgle to rumble.

“Sir, there is a new poster on the far wall. Kindly read the top line of it from here.”

Duncan squinted, and squinted, then drummed the top of his desk ominously.

“What’s this all about, sir?”

“I need you,” Jeremiah said dead-on. “I’m putting together a special all-volunteer force, about two platoons’ worth, and I want you to volunteer.”

“Volunteer to do what?”

“I’d rather not have to explain,” he finally said, simmering down. “The nature of our mission requires utmost secrecy. I can’t tell you unless you volunteer.”

Quinn browsed back over their relationship, the Corps, and the present conversation. “Sir, my hitch is up in five months.”

“Then I’m asking you to ship over.”

“Sir, I love the Corps. It salvaged my life. When I find out what I’m good for in this world, a lot of my strength will have been born in the Marines. However, I’m not a career man.”

“Somehow, I prayed that you would be,” Jeremiah said somewhat sadly. “You’re as smart as they come, O’Connell. You’ll be a wild-ass success and make a great fortune on the outside.”

“I don’t believe that money is my motivation,” Quinn said.

“And that’s why I thought you’d choose a career in the Corps.”

“You’ve a great way of choking my windpipe, sir.”