A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [53]
“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