A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [54]
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 paltoons’ 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.”
“Sorry. You told me you were orphaned at birth.”
“Yes, sir.”
“My old man,” the general said, “worked Texas ranches and, believe it or not, was a Baptist preacher on Sundays. We’re all looking for our father, one way or the other. Always trying to do something to make him proud of us. My father never made it big, nor did he live to see me get the first star pinned on my shoulder. First time I was supposed to retire, a long time ago, I got offers for positions not only from every defense plant, but from an airline, an oil company, a chain of ice cream stores. I received over thirty job offers, some at the kind of money I didn’t know existed. I just knew I couldn’t taste ice cream flavors for the rest of my life. What the hell could I do with money, anyhow?”
“With your permission, sir,” Quinn said, standing.
“Sure,” he answered with a wave of the hand, “go.”
Quinn could not open the door. He tottered. “Sir.”
“You still here?”
“Sir, tell me the truth, just this once,” Quinn said.
Jeremiah grunted a smile. “I’ll try.”
“This mission?”
“It is the highest priority at the command of the President. I consider it about as important as anything any Marine alive could become involved in. And moreover, it’s a Marine’s fantasy.”
“I, uh, could extend my enlistment for two years.”
“You’ve made old Dogbreath very happy,” the general said. “First thing is to get those stripes off your sleeve. I’m skipping you over second lieutenant to first lieut.”
“I don’t want to sound ungrateful, sir…”
“But…”
“There’s too much, too much…”
“Back-biting, regulations, kiss-my-ass?” the general volunteered.
“Something like that.”
“You’re a mustang,” Duncan said in reference to enlisted men who always stayed enlisted at heart, no matter their rank. “When I hit the same fork in the road,” he continued, “I sure as hell didn’t need regulations on how to bow on lady’s night. So, they made me a Marine gunner,” he said in reference to a special warrant officer rank above the enlisted men but below the officers, like a bridge between the two. The exploding-bomb insignias on their epaulets were highly respected.
“Marine gunner,” Quinn said. “I like that, sir.”
“Gunner O’Connell it is,” Duncan said. “And thanks, Marine.”
Quinn knew what Jeremiah meant.
Thus, Jeremiah Duncan’s Recreation and Morale Unit was formed. RAM Company occupied a remote space at Pendleton and in the desert, and its fighters endured a regimen that would make the Navy Seals and Army Rangers cringe. These were light men so as not to add too much weight to the SCARAB load. Major Hugo Grubb, another mustang, honed them to a razor’s edge.
Cherokee Cottrell,