The Devil's Waters

CHAPTER 4





Camp Lemonnier

Djibouti

At the Barn, all the team’s equipment was cleaned first. Doc, Quincy, LB, and Robey sprayed down the Zodiac, flushed and re-oiled the engine. Robey handled his end of the chores in silence. After the raft and chutes were squared away, they went their separate ways to deal with personal gear, then lunch. LB rinsed his wetsuit and scuba stuff, then hung them to dry in his locker. The team was in a surly mood, anticipating the debriefing set for 2:00 p.m., in ninety minutes, after lunch. Everyone, including the PJs and support crew who weren’t on today’s training mission, was required to attend.

With the great hut emptied, LB climbed the ladder to duck into his tent beside Doc’s. The two preferred the roominess of the Barn, having the Ping-Pong table to themselves, and quiet after hours, so they made their racks in tents on the top of a high, broad shelf below the steel rafters and ductwork. The rest of the team was quartered in CLUs, contained living units, modular trailers stacked on top of each other throughout the camp.

The Barn served as the PJs’ nerve center at Camp Lemonnier. A long, narrow table was the domain of the chute riggers. In the Ready Room, the unit’s comm and intel computers fanned themselves. The briefing room also showed movies. On the broad concrete floor, rows of hardware and vehicles waited for action, folded and strapped to skids, each able to be dropped onto land or water. The fridge held cases of bottled water to offset the constant African heat.

Doc and LB agreed that Djibouti was a dusty, hot skillet where litter and grit rode on a bug-filled wind and no bush lacked a thorn or poison leaf. The locals were treacherous or high, and when they weren’t, they were pitifully poor and heartbreakingly earnest. The national beer was a weak joke. For the two of them, the Barn was the best place in the whole country.

LB stretched out on his sleeping bag for a quick nap. He grew drowsy fast. Before he could drop off to sleep, boot steps below opened his eyes. A cheery voice called up.

“Hey!”

LB muttered. This was his own fault; he’d left the tent flap open and his bare feet hanging out where Wally could see them.

Wally hadn’t been scheduled on today’s training drop. Too bad. More than once, LB had seen him actually land on the pallet.

LB had known him for fifteen years. Back then, Wally Bloom was a lanky cadet at the Air Force Academy, the best jumper at the school, captain of the competition team. LB had been a young Ranger lieutenant, passing through the academy for a month of high-altitude jump training. Wally was the instructor who gave it. They’d crossed paths that long-ago summer and never got untangled. Now Wally was an even better jumper, the unit’s top CRO, and LB’s captain. PJs weren’t easy men to command, though Wally tried to make it look like they were.

“Hey,” LB answered without sitting up on his sleeping bag.

“You going to lunch?”

“No. Bring me a sandwich.”

“How’d the RAMZ jump go this morning?”

LB folded hands across his chest. He’d learned to sleep like a soldier, accustomed to the ground.

“Depends on your perspective.”



The unit gathered around the big table and on bar stools. Missing were Wally and Robey.

At 1405, LB stepped outside to look for them. He found both CROs just inside the chain-link gate. Wally leaned on an ATV, listening while Robey spoke animatedly.

LB approached into the sun. “Meeting’s started.”

Robey stilled his gestures. At LB’s arrival, his face bore the same simmering mix of anger and restraint he’d had in the water.

Wally answered. “Robey tells me you lit him up pretty good this morning.”

“Did he? If the lieutenant will come inside, I’ll gladly give him an afternoon session. He can tell me which one he liked better.”

Wally shook his head. LB didn’t like dealing with Wally’s disapproval through sunglasses. He preferred to see a man’s eyes, the giveaway. Underwater, calm or panic showed there before it did in the body. Same thing in combat or a storm, or poker. The dying always died first in the eyes.

“Wasn’t his fault,” Wally said. “The right-side toggle tore when his canopy opened. He only had half control of the chute. Sounds like he did a helluva job landing anywhere near the RAMZ.”

“That so, LT?”

Robey nodded, holding something in.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The rear door of the Barn opened. Doc shouted for them to come on, then retreated into the cool.

LB turned to Robey. “Sir?”

The young CRO licked his lips. “Look. This is my first deployment. That makes me the new guy. I figured it was best to keep my mouth shut.”

“You had no problem talking to the captain here.”

Wally raised a hand. “I ran into Quincy at lunch. He told me what happened. I approached Robey.”

LB asked again, “So why’d you stay quiet and take it? I was wrong.”

“Didn’t see the need.”

“For what?”

“To show you up.”

“Really? You’re worried about making me look bad?”

“Yeah. You’re LB. You’re the man. It’s called respect.”

LB set a hand on Robey’s shoulder. The kid was almost as tall as Wally.

“LT, I was an officer in the Rangers for eight years. I served in South America and the Middle East. I’ve done two PJ tours in Iraq, three in Afghanistan, all of them with the captain here. This is my third time in Djibouti. I’m not worried about looking bad, or being shown up. At this point, I care about one thing, and that’s the mission. If I’m wrong and you don’t tell me, if you let me make a mistake, that’s what makes me look bad.”

Robey hesitated before nodding. This clearly wasn’t the direction he had figured LB would take.

“Now, let me be real clear about this, so we don’t run into it again. You’re an officer. I’m not. You chose to be an officer. You’ve got to show the same commitment to leading men as me and the other guys show at being PJs. Your job is to lead. Period. You never sacrifice that responsibility for your own comfort or need to avoid conflict. Never. You’re in the f*cking military. Conflict is what you do. What if I’m wrong on a real mission? You gonna worry about my feelings then?”

Robey opened his mouth to speak. LB cut him off.

“Sir, please don’t answer me. You haven’t thought this through enough to answer.”

Wally said, “They’re waiting on us.”

LB nodded. “One last thing. See this?”

He tapped the patch on Robey’s sleeve, the same one they all wore.

“That others may live, Robey. That might be the toughest motto in the military. The PJs you lead from this point on are going to trust you with their lives. They need to know you’ll lay it all down for them. They’ve got to count on you being right and saying so. You lead, Robey. Whatever shape that takes. However bad it hurts.”

LB rammed a thumb at Wally.

“I’ve known this one since he was twenty. I trained him. I argue with him as often as not. He’s too good-natured by half, but I’ll say this. I have never seen him refuse to step out in front. You stop worrying about me and start watching him.”

Before Wally could say anything about the compliment, or Robey could mutter a young officer’s thanks for the tough lesson, LB took a step backward.

He put his hands on his hips, a teakettle of a man when he stood like this, short and stout. “One last thing.”

Robey said, “Okay.”

“The men and women who turn to you will be in bad trouble. They will be in the shit. You’ll be their lifeline. They may be frightened, even panicked. They may be bigger and stronger than you. Under no circumstances can you lose your composure or your control of the situation. A PJ is trained to do his job past the breaking point of any other soldier. More than anything else, that’s what makes you a PJ. You got that? Sir?”

Robey squared his jaw before he answered. “Got it.”

Wally signaled LB that the tongue-lashing was done for now. Robey slipped on his sunglasses, too.

Backpedaling, LB watched the pair of CROs follow. In the meeting, he’d rip LT again in front of the team. Let the kid have some practice getting on his feet as an officer, defend himself. Give him a free shot, even things up.